


Two Fronts

by Remembertherandler



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: 1930s/1940s, Alternate Universe, Angst, Depiction of Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fic/Art pairing, First Kiss, First Time, Kissing, Love, M/M, Minor Character Death, Music, Musician Rhett, Ogling, Pilot Link, Pining, Slow Burn, WWII alternate universe, rhink, self discovery, sexual fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2018-07-27 12:59:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 102,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7619068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Remembertherandler/pseuds/Remembertherandler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>Love is patient. Sure, given time. But new love is ravenous, hungry, and insistent. It comes for you like a roaring tidal wave, taking the legs out from under you and washing away everything you were before. And Charles Lincoln Neal - though careful to toe the line of propriety and be what a southern gentleman should - bends to its will like any other. In an unfamiliar pub, in a country an ocean away from his own, he feels his carefully constructed walls come crashing down under the soft gaze of a handsome stranger. He'd come to fight in a war, yes. But when the conflict spreads from the field of battle, and you are at odds with voices in your head that have labeled your love 'wrong', it's a wearying war on two fronts.</p>
  <p>
    <b>Associated Illustrations by <a href="http://valvenaut.Tumblr.com/">Valvenaut</a></b>
    <br/>
    <br/>
    <b>Fic Trailer by <a href="https://youtu.be/EwyzxciumT4">TwiBabe23 Productions</a><b></b></b>
  </p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Hart and Thistle

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Alternate Universe serial. I am excited and also scared as crap.
> 
> I am collaborating with [**Valvenaut**](http://valvenaut.tumblr.com/), a wonderful artist that has offered her hand to this work.  
>  With the release of each chapter there will be associated art.
> 
> We are both really excited to be working together to create an immersive experience.
> 
> As always, your comments and kudos mean a great deal! They are fic writer fuel and are greatly appreciated.
> 
>    
>  _Follow me on that Tumblr thing if you want to keep up to date with my shenanigans:[ **remembertherandler**](http://remembertherandler.tumblr.com/)_  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Recommended Listening:**   
>  [Lucky - The Gatsby Band](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5YfTrAHPB8Y)   
>  [5 Guys Named Moe - The Gatsby Band](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9v6RziVtT-c)   
>  [The Hope Arsenal - Wake Your Soul](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hQy5ND64nq0)

**_August 25, 1940: Tadcaster, Yorkshire, UK._ **

Pilot Officer Charles Lincoln Neal, Lincoln to those closest to him, stepped over the threshold of The Hart and Thistle, the cool Yorkshire evening breeze giving way to the warm, smoke-laden air that filled the cozy tavern. The dim yellow lights filtered lazily through the haze. Beer that had soaked into the wide-planked floor left behind a stale and hearty smell. The sounds of laughter and lively swing music wound their way through the giddy crowd.

Lincoln’s brow was already dampening under the band of his hat. He reached up and plucked it from his head, brushing aside his dark hair and tucking his hat under his arm. Ahead of him, he saw his squadron mates gesturing to him, pointing at the long bar. Lincoln turned and sidestepped his way through the gathered patrons that separated them, and who separated him from the drink that his suddenly parched throat was desperate for.

He stuck his arm out and pushed his way forward, nudging and bumping shoulders with the strangers that surrounded him. He was happy to be off base, but the unfamiliar surroundings had his palms sweating, his body flush with nervous energy. The expressions of a few women that he brushed past shifted quickly from annoyance to admiration. He felt his cheeks warm as he smiled and tipped his head, slowly making his way to his friend’s side. Garrett’s was the only familiar face; his other squadron mates could well have been strangers, he’d only just met them. Garrett Evans had always been a comforting presence, someone who was always there for him, even now, when they were thousands of miles from home, embarking on a new adventure, together.

Garrett had a quiet charm, effortless; he was about Lincoln’s height, but solid and sturdy, where Lincoln tended toward the long and lean. Garrett ran his hand through his sideswept blond hair and looked teasingly at Lincoln. “Getting a little attention there, Neal?” he asked, nudging Lincoln in the shoulder with a closed fist, throwing his hat on the bar and resting his elbow on the wooden surface; Garrett looked so relaxed, though the two of them had only arrived in England a few days ago. Lincoln still felt like he was getting his bearings and here was Garrett, already making himself at home.

Lincoln smiled, tugging at the lapels of his uniform jacket and thrusting out his chin. “They like what they see.” He arched his eyebrow and bit on his lower lip. “Can you blame them?” he winked.

Garrett shook his head. “I think that might have more to do with that uniform you’re sporting.” He poked Lincoln in the chest and when Lincoln tipped his head, Garrett caught him under the chin with his curled index finger. “So, don’t let your head get too big,” he laughed as he turned to the barkeep. “A beer, please.” He turned back to Lincoln, raising his eyebrows in question.

Lincoln nodded and moved to stand at Garrett’s side.

”Make that two,” Garrett called to him over the din of the crowded pub, waving two fingers in the air.

The cheerful stout man behind the counter popped the caps off of two short brown bottles and slid them down the damp wooden surface. “Two _ales_ ,” the man said with wink.

When Lincoln reached into his jacket to retrieve his wallet, the man shook his head, patted his upper arm and tipped his chin. Lincoln looked down at the Eagle Squadron patch that adorned his left arm. Though he wore a Royal Air Force uniform, the patch indicated his volunteer status, as an Eagle, an American fighting in a war his country had yet to enter. Lincoln lifted the bottle to his lips and mouthed a thank you.

Garrett chuckled. “The uniform… paying off again.” He clinked his bottle to Lincoln’s before turning and resting his back against the bar.

Lincoln gave the barkeep a final smile and spun around, looking over the crowd. It was clear that several tables had been shoved aside, making room for the bodies that were now moving with the music coming from the small raised stage. The room was alive with sound: the bright, metallic, trumpet blending beautifully with the smooth depth of the saxophone and the hearty shuffle of the guitar, all accentuated by the rhythmic sounds of the deep stand-up bass and the gentle tapping of the cymbal and snare drum.

Garrett leaned in and spoke into Lincoln’s ear. “This band’s not bad,” he said, tapping his foot as he took a long swig of his drink.

Lincoln’s attention was on the dancers: women in flowing skirts, their hair - once neatly tucked away - falling from the carefully placed pins and clips; men in an array of uniforms, jackets discarded and draped over the backs of chairs, ties loosened. His eyes drifted over the bouncing, lively crowd before settling on the guitarist at the front of the stage; his voice rang out, rounding out the sound. It put a smile on Lincoln’s face.

This was exactly what he needed. Everything in his life for the better part of a year had been about getting in the air, fulfilling his dreams, striving to serve the greater good. Tonight was his chance to relax his mind and body, to be free of the responsibility that had brought on premature wrinkles and fear of the uncertain future the world was faced with. [Here, in this small pub in Tadcaster, among the smiling faces of giddy patrons, the war didn’t exist, erased by the light-hearted laughter and jovial music.](http://valvenaut.tumblr.com/post/148154977515/more-read-two-fronts-on-ao3)

Lincoln surveyed the band, in awe of their skill. He smiled as he registered the happiness on their faces: the joy it brought them to perform was obvious in lines around their eyes, and in their genuine smiles. Lincoln’s gaze fell on the body of the deep brown bass near the back of the stage; he could feel the sound it made reverberating in his lungs, deep and satisfying. He watched the strings vibrate, the wood glimmered in the stage lights. His heart fluttered in his chest as his gaze drifted from the instrument, to person playing it, to the one whose fingers deftly plucked at the thick strings.

His eyes were bright and gleaming, his cheeks were balled by a smile that peeked out through a thick reddish-blond beard, slightly unkempt, but charming. He wore a white cotton shirt, tucked haphazardly into his trousers, the sleeves pushed up at his elbows. One of his suspenders hung from his hip, the other tugged at the unbuttoned collar of his shirt,exposing the soft curve of his collar bone.

Lincoln nearly choked on the mouthful of beer he had been attempting to swallow. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and brushed away the few drops that had fallen on his sleeve. Garrett looked over at him, holding in a laugh. Lincoln flashed him a glare before looking back at bassist.

The man was impossibly tall, towering over his enormous instrument. His shirt was dampened and rendered translucent over his sloped shoulders. He moved his body with the music, shifting the bass, keeping it close. His hands glided effortlessly over the strings as the song drew to a close. After the final notes sounded, he stilled the strings with his large palm.

The room began to echo with applause and cheers. Garrett brought his fingers to his lips and whistled his approval before nudging Lincoln with his elbow. “Not gonna clap for them?”

Lincoln could feel his face flushing and his pulse hammering in his veins. He hadn’t realized it, but at some point his mouth had fallen slack. He shook himself from what he was sure was an obvious and inappropriate stare before beginning to clap. He’d only just joined the chorus of applause as it was drawing to a close.

The tall bassist rested his arm over the body of his instrument before lifting his grey flat-cap from his head and pushing back the wavy, sweat-dampened hair from his brow with the back of his hand. His limbs were long and lanky, yet he moved with incredible grace. He pulled the hat back down over the back of his head, twisting it into place as his eyes met Lincoln’s. His long fingers clung to the brim and a soft smile appeared on his lips.

Lincoln swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. The condensation on the cool bottle in his hand slickened the glass; he thought he might drop it as his fingers began to tremble.

The man tipped his head, still pinching his hat between his thumb and forefinger, his smile morphing into devilish grin as he dropped his hand.

The air suddenly felt as thick as water, slowing everything to a near standstill; the sounds of the room faded into nothingness.The only sound Lincoln heard was his own racing heart, pounding in his ears. He hooked his finger underneath the collar of his tightly buttoned shirt, which felt like a noose around his neck, preventing him from drawing breath. The sharp jab of an elbow brought the world around him back to life, as though someone put the needle back to vinyl, shifting from still-life to motion picture.

“Thanks very much!” the guitarist chimed, tipping his hat and taking a small bow. “We’ll be takin’ a short break.” The rest of the band set their instruments aside, and began stepping down from the stage, heading toward the bar - all except the bassist.

Lincoln watched as he carefully leaned his instrument against the back wall, running his hand over the neck, a wide smile on his face. He was so careful, this was something the man adored, cherished. Lincoln bit the inside of his lower lip and furrowed his brow. He wished he could look away, to bury his feelings, mask them with the false bravado and cocksure attitude that he’d always employed to protect himself from what he knew was wrong, feelings he shouldn’t have.

“So, you said you knew the guitarist?” Garrett’s voice shook him from his reverie. He was talking with Timothy Anderson, a Flight Lieutenant in the squadron.

“Yeah, known him for a while,” Timothy replied, waving his arm in a beckoning motion. “His name’s Theodore, but you’d better call him Teddy.”

“Aye, Timmy!” The slender guitarist slapped him hard on the shoulder and jabbed him in the ribs. “Brought some new recruits, have we?” He smiled at Lincoln, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket. He removed a single smoke and held it between his lips as he fumbled for his lighter; he flicked the top back and lit it with practiced ease. The flame licked the end of the white cylinder, blackening it as he drew in a breath, igniting the tip into a red ember. He tucked away the lighter and held the smoke lazily between two fingers. His long dark hair hung in his eyes and he pushed it back, tucking it behind his ear. His bow-tie tails hung from his shirt pocket, likely removed earlier in the evening.

“Garrett,” Tim gestured to the disheveled-looking musician. “This is Teddy.”

Garrett extended his hand and Teddy took it in both of his, shaking it heartily. “Nice to meet ya, lad,” he said through the clenched teeth that held his cigarette.

Garrett laughed and smiled. “You guys were great!” he grinned.

“Ah, well thanks.” Teddy tipped head. “But I can’t be taking all the credit.” He threw his arm out and around the shoulders of the trumpet player. Teddy rubbed roughly at his hair and the shorter, obviously younger, man grimaced and chuckled. “This here’s Will,” he said with a laugh.

Will’s round face was friendly and welcoming, but he didn’t speak. He gave a shy wave, his already pink face flushing red.

Teddy pointed to the bar where the sax player and drummer were collecting drinks from the friendly barkeep. “Glenn and Cliff,” he said, pointing from one to the other. He looked at Lincoln. “And you are?”

Lincoln stuck out his hand. “Lincoln,” he said with a smile, giving Teddy’s hand a firm shake. His eyes drifted over Teddy’s shoulder to the stage behind him. The tall man he’d wanted to be introduced to most, was fiddling with the tuning knobs of his bass. “So, who’s that?” he said trying to hold in the nerves that were building, and tipping his chin in the direction of the stage.

Teddy turned and let out a sharp whistle. “Oy!” he called. “Get over ‘er, ya lanky git!”

The man looked up, adjusting his flat-cap, and crossed the stage in just a few large strides. He stepped through the small crowd, accepting handshakes and smiling. He towered over everyone he passed, shoulders above even the next tallest man in the room. He squeezed in between Will and a support beam, leaning his weight against the latter.

Lincoln felt his heart rate quicken. Standing this close, he could discern details only hinted at from a distance. The man’s hair was a deep blond, flecked with reds and auburns. His eyes were a grey-blue, almost green. Even though he was leaning, Lincoln could tell that he must stand a good six inches taller than his own six feet. His smile was truly electrifying; Lincoln couldn’t tear his eyes away. He’d never been so drawn to another person in his life. He felt like he was being propelled forward, by a force outside of himself. He clenched his fists and dug in his heels, all in an attempt to ground himself.

“Well, aren’t you going to introduce yourself?” Teddy nudged the tall man with the hand that rested on Will’s shoulder.

Lincoln’s palms were sweating. The tall stranger’s eyes seemed to be lingering on him, trailing from his feet to the dark strands on the top of his head, all the while wearing a slight smirk. The attention was not helping to calm Lincoln’s racing pulse. A simple wandering glance had his knees feeling like they might buckle under his weight. He had to do something aside from stare back; he was worried the others might notice his smitten expression, draw conclusions, figure out what he was. He took a deep breath, unclenched his fist and wiped his palm on his jacket before throwing it forward, an offering. “Lincoln,” he said, flashing his bright, lopsided smile, drawing on the years of experience he had charming everyone he came across.

The man’s left eyebrow hitched high on his forehead while the other narrowed his right eye. He pushed himself from the pole, standing upright and stepping a bit closer. “Lincoln, huh?” He ran his tongue over his teeth under his lips. “I’m Rhett.” [He took Lincoln’s hand in his, encompassing it easily. “But, I think I’ll call you Link,” he winked.](http://valvenaut.tumblr.com/post/148154991960/more-read-two-fronts-on-ao3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading :)
> 
> Shout out to @thegreyhenley for being the best beta reader a girl could ask for! <3 <3 <3
> 
> Much LOVE!  
> RTR <3
> 
>  **Art for This Chapter:**  
>  By: Valvenaut  
> [The Hart and Thistle](http://valvenaut.tumblr.com/post/148154977515/more-read-two-fronts-on-ao3)  
> [Rhett](http://valvenaut.tumblr.com/post/148154991960/more-read-two-fronts-on-ao3)
> 
> By: Magicbubblepipe  
>  [Rhett and Lincoln](http://remembertherandler.tumblr.com/post/162988605930/magicbubblepipe-remembertherandler-i-drew-some)


	2. Lofty Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Recommended Listening:**   
>  [The Civil Wars - Disarm (Smashing Pumpkins Cover)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zWWqoHZmUd0)

**_July 18, 1937: Raleigh, North Carolina, USA._ **

Lincoln squinted up into the rays of the mid-afternoon sun, his skin glistening with sweat. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. The only relief from the stifling heat was the gentle breeze that tickled the dampened hair on the back of his neck. The sidewalk was alive with bustling bodies, heading in different directions. A mother tugged on her young son’s hand, urging him forward as he waved at each passerby. Lincoln grinned at the child’s enthusiasm for a moment before his smile faded. His childhood was over now. He’d just graduated high school, and the life that was laying itself out in front of him was one he was not sure he wanted, one that did not ignite a fire inside of him. He stood motionless in a teeming flow of people, staring down at his feet, until the beating rays of the sun were too much to bear.

He stepped into the shade of the two story, red-brick building that stood in front of him. Its windows were shuttered, but the doors were covered in several large recruitment posters for the U.S. Army Air Corps. Lincoln smiled and ran his fingers over the glass, lingering over the star in the corner.

He sighed, staring into the smiling face of the painted pilot. He’d been entranced by the idea of flight since he was a small child; in fact, he’d gotten his first steelcraft plane for his fifth birthday. He looked up into the cloud-laced blue sky and his eyes fluttered closed.

He drifted back to a summer day, much the same as this. He was looking at the world through a child’s eyes, the wheat nearly as tall as he was, tickling his chin as he pushed it aside, breaking into the plowed clearing dotted with hay bales. [He ran through the plantation's fields, arms outstretched, weaving the metal plane through the air.](http://valvenaut.tumblr.com/post/148495474445/he-drifted-back-to-a-summer-day-much-the-same-as) He sputtered the sound of the engines through pursed lips as he adjusted his aviation goggles and hat, both much too large for him. As he let the memory flood his mind, his heart soared, like it had taken flight, leaving him behind, on the ground, longing to join it, to look down at the world from a higher place.

“Lincoln!” a forceful voice sounded from behind him.

Lincoln felt himself being reeled back to reality, dragged away from the peace of the calm field, the warmth of the memory. His fingers trailed from the glass as he turned around. His father stood on the driver’s side of their car, his arm resting on the roof.

Charles Neal was was a tall man, with broad shoulders and a strong jaw. His dark hair was tucked neatly under his Homburg hat, his blue eyes peeking out under the brim. He wore a suit, as he always did. The slight rounding of his middle-aged tummy stretched the buttons of his suit jacket.

“If we don’t head back now, we’ll be late for dinner.” His father patted the roof of the steel grey Ford.

Lincoln rolled his eyes and headed for the car. He could feel the heat of the sun radiating from the dark paint. The handle was scalding hot to the touch; Lincoln pulled his hand back from the chrome in surprise before reaching for it again and pulling open the door. Stiflingly hot air flowed out through the open door. The black leather seats gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the windows. Lincoln cringed, knowing how unpleasant the feeling of the hot leather would be against any exposed skin. His eyes lit up and he looked over the roof at his father. “Can I drive?” If he was going to be tortured by searing-hot leather, it might be easier if he was behind the wheel.

His father sighed heavily; he raised his brows, quizzically and with a hint of derision.

Lincoln rested his arm on the top of the open door, his wrist hanging limply. “Dad. Oh, please?” he begged, widening his eyes and down turning his lips into a frown.

His father clutched at the keys in his hand before shaking his head in resignation as he tossed them over the car.

Lincoln’s hand shot up into the air, snatching the gleaming metal keys. He stared down at them, in quiet disbelief. His father almost never allowed him to drive the Ford. He was always so protective of it, like it was like a second child. Lincoln’s excitement over the rare opportunity had eclipsed the feelings of doubt and trepidation that had been coursing through him as he’d contemplated the metaphorical road ahead, dreaming of simpler times.

“Well come on then,” his father said, moving around the car, gliding his fingers over the shining paint.

Lincoln nearly skipped as he passed by his father, making his way to the driver’s door.

“Not a scratch,” his father said pointing his finger and looking at Link over his glasses, eyebrows raised.

“Not one,” Lincoln agreed as he hurled himself into the driver’s seat with the childish enthusiasm he’d convinced himself he’d lost. Lincoln’s heart lifted. With his hand gripping the wheel tightly, the other ready to twist the key in the ignition, he felt like the child he’d been in those wheat fields years ago, buoyant and carefree. This, at least, was a road he _was_ ready to travel.

~~~~~ * ~~~~~

Link tapped his fork on his plate. He tried to muffle it in his food, knowing it was a habit that his mother despised, but he had to do something to distract himself. The simple pleasure and distraction of the drive to Fuquay-Varina had long since vanished. The wind whipping in through the window, tousling his hair, felt a lifetime away, replaced by tension and an unsettling sensation of fluttering wings in his stomach.

The topic of conversation over their meal this evening was becoming all too familiar: his future. Lincoln had grown rather accustomed to having what felt like the same conversation, day after day, meal after meal, ever since he’d received his acceptance letter to Harvard. 

Lincoln’s mother gingerly sawed at the steak on her plate, separating it into small cubes; she was always deliberate and meticulous. Her wavy auburn hair was pinned carefully in place and her slender neck was adorned with a large silver pendant that rested over the black satin of her evening gown.

Lincoln’s father’s approach was much more forceful. His silverware clanked together noisily. “You know, I was talking with Robert Clancy,” Charles said as he set his knife down and reached for his glass of red wine.

Lincoln could feel his mother’s eyes on him, likely irritated with his fidgeting. He hated these dinners. These forced meals, the formal dress, it was all an illusion that he’d grown tired of; it certainly didn’t help that the normally inane conversations, meaningless prattle, had become focused entirely on him as of late.

”He said Winston is going to Dartmouth.” Charles took a small sip from his glass, looking over it at his wife across the table.

Lincoln sighed, rolling his eyes and twirling his knife between his fingers. Just as he suspected, more talk of college, more laying out the fabric of the rest of his life.

Before the arrival of his scholarship announcement, these conversations had been limited to settings such as this, family dinners, or other gatherings. His parents had skirted questions regarding Lincoln’s studies, making non-committal comments like “He’s still contemplating his options”, knowing paying for college might be out of reach. But all that changed when the second letter had arrived, indicating that he had been awarded a full scholarship. Ever since, his parents had been parading him around town like a prized hog.

Those brief few weeks between receiving his acceptance letter and being awarded the scholarships had been a reprieve: he’d actually allowed himself to contemplate a life of his own design, not being forced to live out the wishes of his family. He’d foolishly believed that his dream to soar among the clouds could be realized. Hopeful, until the moment he’d retrieved the letter, addressed: Mr. Charles Lincoln Neal III from the mail.

The depression earlier in the decade had taken its toll, and his family was no exception. What was once a bustling household of attendants, housekeepers, and cooks had been quieted as the worst years tore away everything Lincoln had grown accustomed to. The plantation, once run by staff and workers was now a tiny vestige of its former glory. Divided up, sold in lots, the remaining fields rented out to nearby farmers. Nothing was as it had been, their once orderly life now teetered on the precipice; change was something that terrified Susan and Charles Neal. It meant accepting a new way of life and an uncertain future. For Lincoln, it represented hope. A cleverly disguised blessing.

In the new landscape of their lives, a prestigious Ivy League education may have been out of reach. But opening that letter, standing under the shade of the tall sycamores at the end of the long gravel driveway and reading the words he knew were sealing his fate, had driven a stake through his heart. He felt the opportunity to choose his own path and live out his lofty dreams slipping away, running through his fingers like the last grains of fine sand falling in an hourglass, leaving only emptiness in their wake.

He was also wracked with guilt each time he pulled the letter from the drawer, torturing himself with its implications. Holding this offer of a free education at Harvard University meant that someone else, more deserving and more appreciative of the opportunity, was not. Link stabbed at his peas, and a few jumped off his plate, rolling along the table.

Susan stared at Lincoln, watched him toy with his food. “Yes, I think Harriet said something about Winston’s acceptance when I ran into her in Rale-” Her voice stuttered as she paused, eyes bearing down on her son whose knife was now making steady, rhythmic contact with his plate. She gripped her utensils tightly before dropping them onto her thin china dish. “Lincoln, please!” she glared over at him, her eyes wide, lips pursed.

Frustrated and ready to end the torture of the meal and the dizzying prospect of a life filled with similarly inane conversation and pretenses, Lincoln plucked his napkin from his lap and threw it over his half eaten meal, crossing his arms over his chest.

Charles ignored his son’s mild tantrum and continued on as if uninterrupted. “Dartmouth,” he scoffed, stabbing his fork into the piece of steak he’d separated from the bone. “Just a poor man’s Harvard”

Lincoln’s blood boiled in his veins. He clenched his fists in his lap. How could they sit here and talk like this? Act as though they were somehow untouched? Like they weren’t struggling to hold on to what they had?

“Poor man’s?” Lincoln slammed his hands down on either side of his plate, and every dish on the long oak table rattled. “Look around you!” He stood, and gestured around the room, his eyes finally settling on his father’s as shoved his chair back, the feet dragging noisily over the floor, echoing off the walls and high ceilings. He stepped away from the table, grabbing the chair and slamming it back against the table’s edge; crimson wine sloshed over the crisp white table cloth.

His mother jumped in surprise at his sudden outburst, blinking rapidly before narrowing her eyes. “Charles Lincoln Neal!” She enunciated each word with the perfect diction of an enraged mother. “You stop that this inst-”

”No! I won’t,” Lincoln hollered. “I can’t stand it anymore!” He began to pace hurriedly behind his chair, his hands in his hair, tugging at it. “You two waltz around here like nothing’s changed when _everything_ has.” He came to a halt, facing away from them, his hands resting on the mantle of the large fireplace, his head hanging between his forearms. He heard his father’s chair gliding slowly over the floor.

“You listen to me.” His father didn’t raise his voice, but it shuddered with anger. “You will _not_ speak to-”

”Speak to you how?” Lincoln interjected, spinning in place and looking his father in the eye. “Like an adult with an opinion?”

Susan sat silent and still, staring down at her cooling meal.

Lincoln watched his father’s face tighten, his jaw clenching, the normally peach skin of his face reddening in anger, the flush spreading down his neck. He opened his mouth to speak, but only huffs and low growls could be heard. Lincoln’s eyes darted between his parents.

“Charles,” Susan attempted to sooth with a calming tone. “Don’t argue at the-”

“Stop!” Lincoln cried, throwing his hands in the air and clasping them on the back of his head, his fingernails scraping at his scalp. “You are always trying to fix things, Mother.” His hands fell limply to his sides. “Let him yell at me! Let him tell me I’m wrong! Let him tell me that I didn’t hear you two saying that I might have to attend State College, and that even that was a stretch.” Lincoln’s voice was heavy with derision.

Charles chewed on his lower lip, furrowing his brow. His anger was seething, emanating from him, rippling the air. Lincoln was sure that if he looked hard enough he would see waves moving through it like the air over hot asphalt.

Susan placed her napkin on the table; her hands now rested in her lap. She looked up at Lincoln. “You heard…” she stammered. “You heard us?” Her voice was like a whisper.

“Susan, be quiet,” Charles huffed. “I’ll handle this.” He stepped around the table, moving closer to Lincoln.

Lincoln’s mother frowned and stared down at her hands, twisting the ring on her finger in slow circles.

“Handle this…” Lincoln repeated his father’s words. “I’m not some ledger sheet for you to balance!” He turned away from him, staring at the wall. “And stop talking about Harvard like it is this beacon of higher education, unmatched by any other,” he said mockingly. “It’s just a name… given value because of silly traditions and blind loyalty.” His bitterness left a foul taste in his mouth.

Charles grabbed Lincoln’s shoulder, yanking it roughly, turning his son to face him. “Now, you listen to me!” he said, holding firmly. “I have heard just about enough of this.” He released his hold, staring down at Lincoln.

Lincoln’s eyes never drifted from his father’s. “I could get the same education at any school,” Lincoln scoffed. “And that’s if I even wanted to go to college.” He brushed past his father and moved from the dining room into the adjacent drawing room.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” Charles said, rolling his eyes. “Not this _flying_ drivel again.”

Lincoln shook his head. “That’s what my dreams are to you?” he asked, staring at the intricate details woven into the fabric of the large ornate rug. “Drivel?” He was angry but he felt the sting of burgeoning tears in his eyes.

“Perhaps drivel isn’t appropriate; one might wager _foolhardy recklessness_ is more fitting.” Charles stood in the wide doorway that separated the two rooms. “Lincoln, you are talking about throwing away your life!” 

“And what kind of life is it if I am only living it for you?” Lincoln turned, and his eyes met his father’s. He felt the wetness of tears threatening to escape and he turned away. He refused to let his father see him cry. “Is that what you want for me? To live your life, all over again?” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

Charles leaned against the wooden doorframe. “What I want for you is a life with purpose and security, Lincoln.” His anger seemed to be fading.

Lincoln wanted to rip his hair out. Purpose was what he was seeking, what he longed for, and what a life of propriety and formal education would leave him devoid of. He blinked and felt his eyelashes dampen. “Why are you so against it anyway?” He twisted the toe of his shoe, rubbing the sole into the rug before looking back up at his father. “If you want me to follow in your footsteps, shouldn’t I be allowed to enlist as well?”

“No!” Susan’s voice sounded from the dining room, the space that had seemed devoid of her presence suddenly filled with her echoing voice and then the sound of her chair, then the heals of her shoes as she stomped toward them.

Charles looked at her with worry painted across his features.

“No,” she repeated, staring daggers at Lincoln.

Lincoln examined his father’s concerned expression.

“I was conscripted, Lincoln,” he said, not taking his eyes off his wife. “You know that.”

Lincoln felt his resolve slipping away. His mother’s features were contorted, tortured. Her eyes were unfocused. His father reached for her, resting his hand gently on her shoulder. He’d upset them, but he couldn’t help but feel that they’d brought it upon themselves by forcing his hand, backing him into a corner, trapping him. They had to know that he would lash out, they had to know that he wouldn’t remain pliant forever. He shook his head as he remembered why he was having this argument in the first place, anger and frustration resurfacing.

“You are telling us you want to enlist of your own volition.” Charles tore his eyes from his distraught wife. “To risk your life by choice, and as a pilot no less!” he exclaimed, widening his eyes and shaking his head. “You really want to tempt fate, don’t you?”

“I’d rather die living a life of my choosing, than be forced into one of your design.” Lincoln’s tone was cutting and harsh. 

Susan drew in a sharp breath and clapped her hand over her mouth. Her eyes were shining, glistening with brimming tears. Her hand was quivering. She closed her eyes, pushing the tears free and they began to flow down her cheeks.

Lincoln’s brow knitted in confusion. He stepped toward her, his arm outstretched, reaching out to comfort her. “Mother, I’m sor-”

She stepped back from him as her silent tears gave way to a pained sobbing. [Her chest heaved as she wrapped one arm around her ribcage and pressed the back of her hand against her mouth.](http://valvenaut.tumblr.com/post/148495475905/she-stepped-back-from-him-as-her-silent-tears)

Lincoln reached for her again.

“Don’t,” her small and broken voice escaped her trembling lips as she slapped his hand away. Her eyes were unsettled and unfocused. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. “I can’t do this.” She stepped backward into the dining room.

“Susan…” Charles pleaded, twisting in place and reaching out for her as she slipped further away.

She turned from them and ran out of the room, holding the skirt of her dress in one hand and sobbing into the other. The sound of her quick footsteps in the empty hallway were the only sounds in the nearly empty house.

They stood in silence, the air in the room heavy, laden with tension.

Lincoln’s eyes lingered on the doorway through which his mother had just left. “I… what... did I?” His words stumbled over his tongue as he grappled with understanding why his mother had responded so viscerally to his words.

“Your mother doesn’t want to lose you.” Charles answered the question that his son hadn’t managed to ask. “Not like…” his words trailed off. He looked down into his hands and traced the lines of his palm with the pad of his finger.

Lincoln was perplexed. His father’s voice was distant and haunted; he sounded like a stranger, his bravado and stern confidence shrouded, now only dejection and sadness could be heard.

“She lost someone,” Charles started over. “In The Great War.” He pulled off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Someone that meant a great deal to her... Someone that she had intended to spend her life with.” He crinkled his brow and winced.

Lincoln had never seen his father look so vulnerable. A shadow of himself. He wished he knew what to say but his emotions were at war with one another. One side angry and frustrated, the other, guilt-ridden and sympathetic.

”Someone young and innocent was taken from this world.” He looked deeply into Lincoln’s eyes. “What is to stop that someone being you?”

Lincoln searched his mind for a response, wishing he could provide an answer, but there was no way of knowing what his fate might be. He was willing to accept what lie ahead, no matter the outcome. But it was clear that his parents, most assuredly his mother, were not.

“So forgive us Lincoln, but you have been accepted to Harvard,” Charles said slowly, looking down at his hands. “And you are going to Harvard.” His features were smooth, his tone was even, the previous trepidation vanished. “That’s final.”

Lincoln’s heart hammered in his chest, he wanted to scream his protest. It was as if he’d said nothing at all. He may as well have kept quiet for all the good it had done him. He felt drained of all of the fight he had left, exhausted and wrung out. The blueprints for his life seemed etched in stone, unchanging and inflexible. There was no escape, his freedom an illusion. At seventeen Lincoln was too young to enlist. But he wouldn’t always be a child, a puppet whose strings could be pulled.

He decided this battle could wait for another day, he would do as they wished, attend the school of their choosing, live as they deemed appropriate. “Fine,” he conceded. “But when I’m eighteen, you won’t be able to dictate my decisions.” Lincoln intentionally bumped shoulders with his father as he brushed past him, storming out of the dining room leaving his father standing alone in the middle of the empty room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this installment.
> 
> RTR <3 
> 
> **Art for this Chapter:**  
>  By: [Valvenaut](http://valvenaut.tumblr.com/)  
> [Lincoln's childhood memory](http://valvenaut.tumblr.com/post/148495474445/he-drifted-back-to-a-summer-day-much-the-same-as)  
> [Lincoln and his mother](http://valvenaut.tumblr.com/post/148495475905/she-stepped-back-from-him-as-her-silent-tears)


	3. Remembrance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Recommended Listening:**   
>  [Saturn - Sleeping At Last](https://youtu.be/h3lWwMHFhnA)   
>  [Cello Concerto no. 1: Prelude (On Bass) - Bach](https://youtu.be/9yjVwRI5aiU)

**_March 5, 1937: Halifax, Yorkshire, UK._ **

The cool morning air washed over Rhett’s tear-dampened cheeks, his feet depressing the soggy earth, wet grass soaking through the cracks in the soles of his shoes. He looked down at a granite block, his hands tucked into his deep jacket pockets. He rocked on his heels and tipped his chin to the gloomy, gray sky. The stillness of the air was disturbed only by the small distant calls of a collared dove.

It had been two years and yet the wound was so raw it felt like no more than a day had passed. He had learned to manage, but crouching down, placing his palm over the cool stone, ripped the thin, delicate scab away. He ran the pad of his finger through the grooves that spelled out a name: McLaughlin. Next to it, a second more weathered and worn stone, adorned with the same surname, the graves of his mother and father.

The cold, misty, early morning air soaked through his clothes, tiny glistening droplets collecting on his flat cap. Rhett’s fingers trailed down the granite, slipping and falling into the grass, fingers grasping at the long unkempt blades at the base of the gravestone. He pulled them from the ground and rubbed them between his fingers. It left behind a green tinge, working its way into the grooves of his thumb and forefinger.

The world had taken his mother from him rather suddenly, illness consuming her within a few short months. It started with a cough, nothing more. Bed rest and fluids, that’s what the doctor had said. But she only got worse. “Cancer”, they said. “A few months,” they said. Each new appointment, each visit, each time the doctor pulled the stethoscope from his ears — shaking his head and averting his eyes — it ripped a piece from Rhett’s soul from him, leaving him a desiccated husk.

He was strong for her, wearing the smile he knew she wanted to see. He never showed her his fear, his anguish. He would not allow her to bear further weight, would not let her feel guilt, or worry. But lying in bed, when the lamplight had faded, sinking his room into darkness, he’d cried himself to sleep more times than he could count. He was to be alone in the world. His father had died in 1918, when Rhett was only one. Spanish flu had stolen so many lives, torn asunder many families. And though he had no memory of his father, Rhett’s mother had brought him to life. Stories and photographs painted a picture of a man Rhett was proud to call his father; he was grateful that she never allowed him to become just a memory.

Watching her waste away meant he would have the shoulder the burden of remembering them both, keeping them alive, and he wasn’t sure he was ready. The quiet, dark evenings were reserved for his grief, but by day, he hid behind a soft smile and loving eyes. He brought her tea, made her laugh, covered her feet with wool blankets when she was chilled, doing everything in his power to make her feel comfortable and loved. But the task grew more difficult as the illness took hold, the strings of her life drifted out of tune, leaving behind only pain and suffering.

People had offered to help, but he refused their kindnesses. This was something he wanted to do alone. Even though he knew it would be the most trying time of his life, it was time with his mother, and he was not willing to give up even a second. As he sat at her bedside, holding her hand as she slipped from this world into the next, drawing in her last slow breath, he felt something inside of him break, shatter, and crumble away. There was a calmness in finally seeing her at peace, but he was changed by it, altered, and truly alone..

Rhett stood and stepped back, adjusting the collar of his jacket and wiping his nose with the back of his hand, sniffling, squinting the last of his tears from his eyes. The air hung heavy. Every second he stood on the hallowed ground it grew more oppressive, like a thunderhead, looming, ready strike him down. He’d made promise to himself and, silently, to his mother, to remember them, to remember her. But each day was harder than the last, each reminiscence riddled with more pain, visits more infrequent. Every day he became more and more unfamiliar with the reflection that stared back at him in the mirror. He knew that she would want him to live a full life, to seek out happiness in the world, but all the colour and life seemed to drain away in an instant, leaving his surroundings dull and washed out.

He lifted his hat and laid it on his chest over his heart, bowing gently in respect, and turning to leave. He prayed that outside the short stone walls of the cemetery, he could breathe easier, that the clarity of his painful memories would fade as if they were somehow tied to the headstones themselves. But as he walked down the narrow cobblestone street, heading for the textile factory where he worked, he could not escape his past. It seemed every house, every tree, every crack in the stones underfoot was a landmark in his life, one bookmarked, dogeared with recollections of the family that he no longer had.

“Rhett.” A woman’s small voice sounded from the shop across the road. “Rhett McLaughlin, a sight for sore eyes,” she beamed, a genuine and warm smile on her face. “Would you be a dear and help me with these pota-”

Rhett slowed to a stop, looking up from his rather intense transfixion on his feet. His eyes were reddened and puffy, swollen and grief stricken.

“Oh, deary,” she said, her smile fading, once exuberant hands falling limply to her sides.

Rhett tried, but could not manage a smile. He instead, pulled his hand from his pocket and waved weakly.

She tilted her head to the side and pressed her lips together in an apologetic smile, waving him on. 

Rhett looked back to his feet and continued on his way. Without conscious effort, his feet had carried him along a familiar route, but one that he usually avoided. It brought him past a small stone cottage, unusual in a town full of row houses. It had been part of a large manor house complex, a servant's dwelling, the rest of which had long since been demolished and replaced by stables. Rhett willed his feet to carry him forward, but they cemented him in place. He closed his eyes, chewing his lower lip before opening them and looking sideways at the familiar structure, his childhood home.

A gnarled crabapple tree canopied the small front garden; under it sat a dilapidated bench, a broken board hanging from its seat. The house had fallen into disrepair after being purchased by a developer whose intention was to clear the lot. The few boards that covered the windows did little to protect them from neighbourhood children who’d taken pleasure in smashing them with a few well-aimed stones. The once vibrant red front door that had welcomed him home each day was dulled and peeling, nailed shut, and plastered with notices.

He turned and rested his arm on the stone pillar that sat at the end of the walkway, looking over the place he used to call home: a place he might still live, had circumstances been different. Everything about it had changed; it was nearly unrecognizable. And yet, Rhett was sure he could hear the soft, familiar sounds of a cello on the light breeze. He closed his eyes and the somber scene before him drifted away.

[Rays of sunshine filtered down through twisted branches, dancing across the lithe figure of his mother. She was seated on the bench, a honey-brown cello nestled between her knees, gleaming in the scattered rays of sun.](http://valvenaut.tumblr.com/post/148945587880/rays-of-sunshine-filtered-down-through-twisted) She held a bow delicately between her fingers, maneuvering it with effortless grace, drawing it across the strings as if were an extension of her body, part of her. Her hair hung in her closed eyes, but she had no need to see: she felt the music. Her fingers slid seamlessly from one note to the next, her smile was serene and peaceful. The music was beautiful and resonant. The song was one Rhett knew well; his mother had played it often, and each time the haunting timbre of the round notes grew more beautiful, like a fine wine maturing with age.

Rhett opened his eyes and the music that had been so clear in his mind faded away and was replaced by the sound of hooves and wheels on cobblestone as a farmer’s mule-drawn cart passed behind him, the man walking in stride with it, tipping his hat. Rhett sighed, allowing himself a final glance over the overgrown garden before pushing himself from his smooth stone perch and continuing on his route. But the image of his mother was burned in his mind. How many times had he watched her sit and play, listened to the soft music as he sat next to her in the grass.

Music had been a constant presence in his life and now it seemed a distant memory, an echoing reverberation in his mind. His mother had brimmed with music. It infused every aspect of her life, painting it in striking colour. She was a music teacher at the Halifax High School for Girls and taught private lessons in her spare time. Their house was always full of a chorus of instruments and joyfully hummed tunes. She had Rhett’s fingers to the ivory keys of a piano before he could walk, but his favorite instruments had always been stringed. He appreciated the breadth of sound they could emanate, each one with its own unique character. He could not have imagined a world in which his life would be devoid of music, but he’d not played a single note in the two years since her passing.

The sky overhead lightened for a moment, dreary gray clouds parting and allowing in a fleeting hint of sunshine before closing up once more. Rhett had welcomed how the teasing light had warmed his cold skin, but collapsed in his shoes as it disappeared. Each step he took was slower and slower as he rounded the corner, the looming high walls of Wellington Mills coming into view. The toe of his shoe dragged as he came to a stop. He couldn’t take another step. What lay behind those walls was a daunting reminder of how stagnant his life had become, that each morning he had to walk these familiar streets and be confronted by the same demons. Though he’d never missed a day of work in his life, this job was a shackle on his ankle, one he was not ready to clamp on. Not today.

Behind him, the small sound of a brass entry bell rang out. Rhett turned to see a man wheeling a small dolly loaded with crates of empty bottles, above his head a swinging tavern sign. Though the letters were worn, Rhett knew the place to be called “The Oddfellows Arms”, a dank old watering hole frequented by some of his co-workers, but not one he’d visited himself. Now seemed as good a time as any; perhaps alcohol could offer him the escape he craved so deeply.

As he strode across the street, the skies opened and cold rain began soaking through his wool jacket. He took the last few steps at a jog, his foot splashing into the puddle of water that had already collected along the edge of the road as he stepped up onto the sidewalk. He wasn’t even sure if the pub would be open, but the delivery boy - now rushing down the street with his jacket thrown over his head - had just left, so he knew the door wasn’t locked. He’d take his chances. He pulled on the tarnished brass handle, opening the heavy oak door, chiming the bell once more as he stepped over the threshold.

Though the sky was gloomy and dark, as the door swung closed, his eyes struggled to adjust in the low light inside. Two small windows on the front wall let in only a hint of natural light. Rhett blinked away the shadows and the pub that came into focus was actually quite charming, not at all what he expected, and certainly not what was advertized by its dreary exterior.

The forest-green walls were accentuated with wide beams, running floor to ceiling. A few yellow lamps lit glittering bottles on the wall behind the short, narrow bar. On high shelves sat trinkets and treasures, all carefully dusted and polished. The walls were covered in photos, smiling faces, musicians, patrons, and artistic shots of the village and pastures.

“Can I get you something there, son?” an older gentleman with graying whiskers asked from behind the bar. His hands were busy drying and arranging glassware. In front of him, a man lay draped over the counter, arms dangling, throat rattling as he snored.

Rhett’s eyes widened and he ordered the first thing that came to mind. “Anything… a bourbon, I guess.” Rhett opened the buttons of his soaked wool jacket, peeled it from his sloping shoulders, and draped it over his arm as he approached the bar. Rhett took a seat on the far stool, leaving space between himself and the collapsed patron.

The barkeep poured the caramel liquid into a short crystal glass and placed it in front of Rhett. The glass glittered in lamps glow, bourbon-tinted triangular patches of light sprayed over his hand. He looked down, swirling the bourbon around in the glass, and the scent of distilled spirits flooded his senses. This was stupid. He should be at work, not holed up in a pub numbing his pain with alcohol. He knew it offered only temporary escape, but he longed for even a moment away from the insistent thoughts and memories that had followed him through the streets and pushed him through these doors. He brought the delicate rim of the glass to his lips and threw it back; this was not an occasion for sipping or savoring.

“Another?” The bartender asked, angling the bottle and raising an eyebrow.

Rhett nodded, setting his glass down. As the liquor splashed gently into his glass he looked down the bar, shaking his head at the young man who lay sleeping. Surely 8:00 a.m. on a Friday morning was far too early to be in such a state. He rolled his eyes, downing his second glass. Staring at the empty vessel in his hand, he regretted his critical attitude; he was in no position to judge.

The crumpled man let out a groan and smacked his lips before continuing to fill the cozy pub with loud snores. His shirt, white with thin stripes, was wrinkled, untucked, and partially unbuttoned. His dark hair was in total disarray, sticking out in all directions.[ An unlit cigarette hung out of his mouth, a small knick crept from his upper lip, a smear of blood had dried under his left nostril painting part of his freckled cheek red.](http://valvenaut.tumblr.com/post/148854229285/the-crumpled-man-let-out-a-groan-and-smacked-his) He was a mess, but there was something about him, something familiar.

The bartender nudged the drunk’s dangling hand with the back of his own, garnering no response. He set down the glass he’d been polishing and tucked his towel over the top of the apron wrapped around his waist. He smiled at Rhett before slamming his hands down on the bar. The force of his large palms shook the entire room, and rattling glasses and liquor bottles clinked around them.

The sleepy patron jolted upright on his stool. His eyes were bloodshot and his lips were white and dry, the cigarette clinging to them. “Huh.” He blinked the drunken sleep from his eyes, rubbing his hand under his bloody nose. “Jesus, Bernard. Last call already?” His tongue lapped at the small cut and he winced.

”Ha!” The bartender scoffed. “That was over six hours ago, Theodore.” Bernard, as he seemed to be called, whipped him playfully with his polishing towel. 

Rhett’s eyes blew open as he finally placed the familiar face sitting next to him. Theodore? Theodore Burgess? “Teddy?” he muttered quietly to himself. He looked down at his glass. He must be seeing things. Too much bourbon, too early in the day.

“And you best be watch your language in me pub!” Bernard scolded.

Theodore plucked the cigarette from his lips and moistened them with his tongue. He patted the legs of his pants and pulled out a lighter. “In that case, I’ll have a Guinness… Sir.” He stuck the cigarette in his mouth again and lit it with practiced ease. “Most important meal, breakfast is… eh there?” The man turned to Rhett, hoping to draw him into the banter.

In the brief instant that his eyes met Theodore’s, any uncertainty over the man’s identity had vanished. This was definitely Theodore “Teddy” Burgess. Rhett had known Teddy since he was only a child. Though he was a couple of years older than Rhett, Teddy had been a near constant presence in his life, until he up and left three years earlier, to chase his dreams of being a musician, making his presence here all the more unusual.

Bernard reached for a tall pint glass on a shelf over his head and placed it on the bar, filling it with dark stout and sliding it along the smooth wooden surface.Teddy took the glass in his hand and took a healthy swig. He swallowed it quickly and sucked air sharply through his teeth, sticking his finger in his mouth under his cut lip, grimacing and inspecting the digit.

The surly bartender rolled his eyes and wiped away the ring Teddy’s glass had left on the bar. “Serves you right for being a right git,” he huffed.

”Oh, ‘e had it comin’,” Teddy retorted, throwing his hand in the air dismissively.

”Oh did he now?” Bernard nodded, dropping his jaw but keeping his lips together. “And here I thought you were sitting right about where ye are now, cuddlin’ up with his lass.” He rested his hands on the bar and leaned in, inspecting Teddy’s wounds. “You left the man with no choice, and to be honest with ye, you deserved worse.”

Teddy chuckled and took another sip of stout.

Bernard’s attention shifted back to Rhett. “Can I get you another, or somethin’ else if it fancies ya?” His smile was kindly, not the expression he wore when speaking to Teddy.

”No, thanks.” Rhett kept his eyes in his lap, trying to avoid meeting his old friend’s gaze. He had come here to escape his past and the memories of it, not to be confronted with them face-on.

”It don’t matter much whose fault it is now, does it Bernard?” Teddy said, his tone annoyed and tired. “I’m in a right mess now. I’ve got to be in Tadcaster tomorrow night, and I’ve got no bassist.” He threw back his head and downed the last of the thick, dark beverage, yellow foam clinging to the inside of the tall glass. “Though he was kind enough to leave me bass unmarred, even if I can’t say the same of my face.” He gestured to the small stage in the front corner of the pub.

Rhett turned causally in the direction of the stage, not wanting to draw attention. In the back corner, standing next to a black guitar case, stood a deep mahogany bass, its age and provenance evident in the small details: details Rhett had developed an appreciation for as a result of his mother’s keen interest and his own inquisitive nature. This instrument was a Pöllmann, the same late 19th century Pöllmann Teddy had played in his lessons with Rhett’s mother, the one that had been passed down three generations in his family on his father’s side.

”It would seem you’ve found yourself in quite a pickle, dear lad,” Bernard laughed softly, wiping at yet another piece of glassware, this time a large water pitcher.

”Mmmm,” Teddy hummed in response. He sighed and rolled the glass in his hand on the bar. When it finally settled, he hopped down from his stool and headed toward the small door just beyond the counter.

“Uh, uh.” Bernard stepped out and stopped him with an outstretched arm. “I won’t have you mussin’ up the loo.” He spun Teddy in place and pushed him toward the front door. “You take your business outside.”

Teddy stumbled with the force of Bernard’s shove. “I see how it is,” he smiled back at him. “Sending me out in the rain like an animal.” Teddy snatched his coat from the stool he’d been seated and threw it on as he walked toward the door.

“An animal, getting treated like an animal?” Bernard jeered. “Fancy that, would ya?”

”Well, this animal...” he pointed to himself over his head, “will have another drink when it gets back!” he said as he began to laugh.

The jovial sound, Rhett hadn’t realized he’d even missed, filled the room.

“You still ‘avent pestered up for your last four... “ Bernard calls after him, shaking his head as Teddy disappeared through the door into the heavy sheets of rain. The noise was almost deafening, drops bouncing off the stone stoop joining those slamming into the glass panes of the window.

”I’m good for it!” he called over his shoulder as the door swung closed.

Bernard rolled his eyes and went back to his task of meticulously cleaning every glass in the pub until they gleamed and glittered.

Rhett’s eyes were glued to the bass. It was calling to him. The strings begging to intone the notes they’d been made to sing. He didn’t remember getting up from his seat, crossing the room, climbing onto the small stage or taking the instrument into his hand. It was as if he’d been transported there in an instant, no decisions to be made, no chance to argue against instinct. His hand encircled the neck, the other collecting the bow from the stool at his side. He rested the horsehair over the strings for a moment before pulling the bow and sounding a note for the first time since he’d played for his mother the day she passed.

The notes were rough and unpracticed at first, but his hands found a familiar rhythm and one of Bach’s famous preludes began to form. Though his weakened fingers struggled to hold down the thick strings, his body knew this instrument and it began to surrender to him, ringing out the notes as he willed them. The acoustics were astonishing for such a small space. The resonant sound enveloped the room in a warmth that seemed to fill in a small part of the chasm in his heart, the black hole that had consumed part of his soul. He felt closer to whole than he had in as long as he could remember, like he was being reunited with the piece of himself he was sure had been shattered beyond repair.

He closed his eyes, playing himself through the first movement, his fingers finding their positions, bow smooth and controlled, just as his mother had taught him. As the last long, low note trailed off into the corners of the room and the tiny Halifax pub fell silent, Rhett looked down at his hands. His fingers trembled on the strings, the bow quivered next to his leg. A slow but forceful clap began across the room and Rhett looked up, startled.

“Rhett _James_ McLaughlin.” Teddy held the final clap of his hands together, clasping one around the other and bowing. He was drenched from head to foot, his hair hung in his face, his shirt was plastered to his skin.

Looking down at Teddy now, he realized how silly his previous avoidance had been. Teddy might be the only person left in this world that he might be able to call family. Rhett had been hurt when it had seemed so easy for Teddy to just walk away, but if he was honest, he’d always admired his friend’s tenacity.

“I’m not sure I would have recognized you if you weren’t lumbering behind something with strings,” Teddy laughed, running his fingers through his wet strands and taking a few squelching but exuberant steps toward Rhett.

Rhett rested the bass back in place and stepped down off the stage, hands tucked in his pockets. “Teddy,” he said quietly. “It’s a good thing you’ve got that split lip or I might have mistaken you for an average drunk,” Rhett teased. Trouble had a way of finding Teddy. Rhett wasn’t at all surprised that he’d managed to get himself slugged. The nuances of Teddy’s personality were lost on many, and it seemed that in the three years since he’d left town, that had not changed.

Teddy laughed as the two drew closer. “Still full of that McLaughlin wit, I see.” Teddy rolled his eyes.

Rhett smiled. “It would seem so,” he replied, clapping his long arm around Teddy’s shoulder, pulling him into a firm hug. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d hugged someone, it felt warm, even though Teddy’s damp clothes were soaking through his own.

Teddy slapped him firmly on the back. “Let me go, would ya,” he spoke into Rhett’s chest. “You’ve got a way of making a grown man feel like a child!” he laughed, pulling back, holding Rhett’s shoulders.

Rhett chuckled, rubbing roughly at Teddy’s hair. He ran his hands over his damped shirt.

“How’ve ya been, McLaughlin?” Teddy smiled, cupping Rhett’s shoulder before his happy expression quickly faded. He averted his brown eyes to the similarly coloured wooden floor.

”So, you heard then?” Rhett pressed his lips together.

Teddy looked up and met his gaze; his eyes were warm and apologetic. “I did.” He dropped his hands from Rhett’s shoulders. “Shame... she was a good woman.” Teddy curled his finger over his chin rubbing at the rough skin. “I’m so–”

”Don’t…. Please.” Rhett put his hand up shielding his face.

Teddy looked Rhett over, his brows furrowed, concern for his oldest friend evident in every small wrinkle and twitch of his features.

Rhett teetered on the balls of his feet, hands tucked deeply in his trouser pockets.

Teddy’s features smoothed and he bent his body, trying to meet Rhett’s averted gaze. “Any chance you might finally be interested in gettin’ the hell out of Halifax there, Stretch?” Teddy asked, a teasing smirk on his face.

Though Rhett had never expected to see Teddy again, here he was, offering him the escape he’d come here seeking. Rhett looked over his shoulder at the bass and then back to Teddy. “You know,” he said slowly, his heart in steady rhythm, the way ahead seeming so clear. “I think I am.”

Teddy’s face lit up and he pulled Rhett toward him, clapping his hands over Rhett’s upper arms. “Ah, then I guess we should celebrate!” Teddy’s mouth was spread wide in a giddy smile. “That is, if you think you can loosen up. Bach isn’t really part of our repertoire,” Teddy winked.

Rhett’s head tipped to the side as he widened his eyes, lifting his eyebrows, the picture of unimpressed.

Teddy winked and turned back to the bar. “Two shots of your finest, good sir!” He waved his hand in the air with regal authority.

The unamused bartender threw down his damp towel, the slapping sound was sharp and abrupt. “Theodore, I ought to give you a swift kick in the–”

“Oy, Bernard!” Teddy interrupted, bugging his eyes and smiling crookedly. “I’m trying to welcome Rhett here, to The Calderdale Lads… a little discretion?”

As they approached the bar, Rhett sensed that, once again, Teddy had managed to push all the right buttons. ”Put it on my tab,” Rhett said softly, defusing the tension.

”You sure can play… but you’ll need all the strength you can muster with this one.” Bernard gestured to Teddy with an accusatory thumb while pouring bourbon into two small tumblers.

Rhett laughed low in his throat. “Oh, I’ve no doubt,” Rhett sighed, raising his glass.

Teddy reached over, collecting his drink, propping his arm up on his elbow and leaning toward Rhett. “To old friends and new adventures.” He clinked his glass to Rhett’s.

Rhett smiled warmly and nodded. New adventures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I appreciate each one of you so much.
> 
> Writing this AU is a totally new experience for me and I hope you are enjoying it! <3
> 
>  **Art for This Chapter:**  
>  By:Valvenaut  
> [Teddy and Rhett at the Pub](http://valvenaut.tumblr.com/post/148854229285/the-crumpled-man-let-out-a-groan-and-smacked-his)  
> [Rhett's mother under the tree](http://valvenaut.tumblr.com/post/148945587880/rays-of-sunshine-filtered-down-through-twisted)


	4. What Makes a Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Recommended Listening:**   
>  [Hearing - Sleeping At Last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yTxhB1TE1xA)   
>  [Ache - Still Weeks](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nnS4P2WIKP4)   
>  [Save Me - Flora Cash](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dx9q9sDNboU)   
>  [I Break My Heart - Grayshot](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gR6sni1xyik)

**_September 8, 1937: Cambridge, Massachusetts, USA._**

Lincoln stood in the foyer of the large hall, looking up at the high ceilings and the ornate beams that ran across it. His parents had offered to help him carry in his bags, to help him settle. But he had insisted that he could handle it on his own. He wasn’t sure he could tolerate the looks on their faces, their joy at his misery.

The drive had been a slow form of torture. With each passing mile Lincoln grew more anxious, more resentful, while his parents gushed in the front seat. He watched as the scenery outside his window changed from the pasture land and forested stretches of the south to the tall buildings and busy motorways of New York City. They had arranged to spend a night there with his great aunt, an insufferable woman even more concerned with status and tradition than his parents.

He’d feigned a headache and excused himself from dinner without eating. Her apartment was large for New York — consisting of the entire top floor of a large high rise overlooking Central Park — but not large enough to prevent his hearing their forced laughter and uppity reminiscence about the place that was soon to become his prison. He’d laid there for what felt like hours, on top of the down-filled comforter, his face buried in a mountain of pillows, trying to drown out the din of prattle. Eventually they gave up their relentless chatter and retired for the night.

He hadn’t slept. He’d stared up at the ceiling, interlacing his fingers, picking at his nails, gnawing at skin around them, a habit he’d had since childhood. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, steady and slow, like it was doing just enough to keep him alive, but nothing more. He couldn’t think of the last time it had raced for anything but anger or frustration. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d even smiled genuinely. Each day leading up to the trip drained more and more, like a tap on his vein was bleeding him dry.

Though he dreaded the destination, he was more than pleased to get back on the road, to free himself of the confining walls of that penthouse. In Fuquay he could get away, escape into the fresh air, close his eyes and lay in silence in the high grass. But when he went to the window for a hint of the same, the air was thick and heavy, riddled with the sounds of more people than he cared to fathom, feeling nauseated at the thought that more of the same awaited him in Cambridge. There would be no escape, not enough pillows in the world to hide away from the life that was about to become his reality.

Lincoln had visited his father’s alma mater once as a child, but the city had grown, the borders expanded. As they passed over the Charles River and entered Cambridge, the Harvard campus sprawled out in front of them, tall trees lining wide lanes. Lincoln felt so deflated he was unsure if he would be able to gather the strength necessary to get out of the back seat.

The back and forth discussion that ensued had been tiresome but he’d eventually freed himself from his mother’s clutches, shook his father’s hand, and walked away just as his parents were overcome by another over-enthusiastic pair with a legacy under their wing. He’d rolled his eyes and continued toward the building he now stood in, Apley Court.

This residence hall had been the home of T.S. Eliot, and of course, his father. Lincoln set down his bags and riffled through his pockets for the slip he’d received that contained his room assignment. He headed up the marble staircase lined with photographs of alumni. He paused on the landing as a familiar face jumped out at him.

His father stared out at him from a framed photo, sticking out in a sea of smiling faces. He was younger, but unmistakably Charles Neal. He looked happy, wearing a smile Lincoln wasn’t sure he’d seen grace his typically stoic features before. He had his arm around the shoulders of two other gleeful looking men that Lincoln assumed to be his friends. They were standing in the courtyard he had just walked through, crowded around the main doorway. Two men in the front held a banner that read: Apley Boys.

Lincoln tried to hold in in, but he could not stop a small smile from appearing on his lips. He turned away and continued up the stairs, down the north wing, until he stood in front of a door bearing two small name tags. He read his name, sighed heavily, and pushed open the door.

Inside, the light passed through thin cotton curtains, painting the ivory walls with a yellow glow. The deep mahogany furniture filled the relatively small space, two matching pairs. A captain’s bed with simple linens, a small desk accentuated with a green-glass lamp, and a tall bookcase. His shelves were empty, but the other was being filled with books and trinkets by a man he assumed to be his roommate.

Lincoln cleared his throat and dropped his bags noisily on the floor.

The blond man tucking away books spun around, startled. “Oh!” He smiled, placing the last of his books on the shelf. “You must be Charles.” He walked toward Lincoln, hand outstretched. His voice was warm, his smile tender.

”Lincoln,” he corrected. “I go by Lincoln.” He offered his hand in return, accepting the handshake. It was firm, yet welcoming.

“I’m Garrett.” He continued to shake Lincoln’s hand with enthusiasm. “Garrett Evans.” He finally released Lincoln’s hand and smoothed the pleated fronts of his trousers, looking around the small space that they would be sharing. “It looks like we will be getting to know each other pretty well, Lincoln.”

“Yes.” Lincoln smiled. “It seems that way.”

  


**February 26, 1938: Cambridge, Massachusetts, USA.**

The cold dreary days of winter had arrived in Massachusetts. Lincoln’s first semester had passed by so quickly, in a flurry of activity, and now his new classes were beginning and he found himself settling into college life.

Garrett had made things easier for him. He was unlike anyone he expected to meet. He came from a well-to-do family, a legacy like Lincoln. For all intents and purposes, he should have been insufferable, and yet, Garrett had become his best friend.

Many late night study sessions and casual rows down the canal had cemented their friendship. But if Lincoln was honest, from the moment they met, there was a bond that seemed pre-forged: they were connected, like family. Lincoln was an only child, but he imagined brotherhood felt no different. He had found a friend where he’d expected to find only the stereotypes he’d conjured.

This unexpected turn of events had opened Lincoln’s eyes to possibilities he’d never considered, that a life at Harvard might have more to offer him than he’d anticipated. He had been so critical of what he thought this institution was, so sure of what he would find, how the people would be, that he hadn’t considered a reality in which he could have been so horribly wrong. Sure, there were stuffy Deans and uppity alumni, but the campus was alive with new ideas, and progressive thinking. 

Garrett and Lincoln had been taking advantage of the freedom that the first few weeks of a new semester offered, before the workload landed them in hard wooden library chairs, late into the night, eyes straining through seemingly endless stacks of books.Though the canals were frozen over, the rowing machines offered the two enthusiast a way to blow off steam.

Lincoln had teased Garrett about his rowing at first, told him that he couldn’t have chosen a more pretentious hobby. That was until Garrett’s usual rowing mate threw out his shoulder and he’d begged Lincoln to join him on a brisk fall morning. Fog had hung low over the water, the sun barely peeking over the horizon, tiny hints flickering through the brightly coloured fall leaves. He loved the feeling of the oar in his hands as he pulled it through the water of the Charles River, the flat, reflecting calm disturbed by the ripples that surrounded each dip of the oar. He had to eat his words. He never felt more relaxed than he did rowing the river. His mind was free, no plaguing thoughts, no need for talking as he and Garrett worked in effortless tandem.

And now, in the deep of winter, Lincoln found himself missing the river. The rowing machines were a poor substitute, a pale imitation, but until the icy waters thawed, they would have to do. After an hour of rowing, staring at the barren white walls of the gym, Lincoln was ready to call it a day. He tapped Garrett on the shoulder and gestured toward the locker room. Garrett nodded and continued. He had more dedication. Without the motivation of the calm river and changing scenery, Lincoln had to force what came so naturally in a different setting.

Lincoln stepped into the locker room, wiping the sweat from his brow with the towel around his neck. He crossed the large tiled room and opened his locker. He peeled off his sweaty clothes and wrapped himself in the soft, white terry cloth and walked to the curtained shower stall. As he rounded the corner he saw a tall, dark haired senior he’d seen a few times before, standing only feet away from him, wearing only a towel, draped over his neck, which he was using to dry his hair.

The flutter of his heart thrummed in Lincoln’s ears, and the lump in his throat threatened to suffocate him. He was staring at exactly what he should be avoiding and he was glad of the flush he had from exercising; it covered the one that was now flooding his skin. His admiration had gone unnoticed, however, since the older man’s face was buried in a towel.

“Lincoln?” Garrett’s familiar voice called from behind him.

Lincoln couldn’t bring himself to turn and face him. Instead, he dropped his gaze to the damp tile floor underfoot. The man he’d been admiring brushed past him, whistling as he wrapped his towel around his waist. But it was too little, too late. The damage had been done. Lincoln trembled, his knees shaking beneath him.

“Lincoln?” Garrett repeated. “Are you okay?” His tone was laced with concern. “You’re shaking.”

Lincoln squinted and brought his hand to his hair, holding firmly to his towel and shower bag in the other. “I’m fine… I’m just tired from the row.” He stumbled forward and pulled back the curtain to the nearest shower stall and pulled it closed behind him. His body collapsed against the tiled side wall, his trembling fingers losing grip, his towel and bag dropping to the floor. He buried his face in his hands, muffling the low sobs that began to shake his chest. His eyes were stinging and he felt like his body was catching fire. He hated himself for the way he felt, wishing he could will it away, to change. He remembered the anxiety he’d felt every time he felt his eyes lingering inappropriately. He’d dreaded the thought of a male roommate, fearing that he would be unable to control his thoughts and his body’s natural response. He’d been relieved that his feelings for his friend had only even been platonic. Garrett was his solace; around him, Lincoln could escape the feelings he’d been suppressing for as long as he could remember.

He kicked at his towel angrily and snatched up the soap from his bag. He walked forward and stood under the large shower head, staring up at the small holes, attempting to count them, to distract his mind. He reached out and turned the knob for the hot water. The rushing liquid in the pipes behind the walls began to drown out the sound of his pounding heart. Water sputtered and began to spray down from over head, cold at first, quickly shifting to a scalding stream. As Lincoln looked down at his body, ashamed at his arousal, he made no attempt to adjust the temperature. He wanted it to burn, to hurt.

He rubbed the slippery bar of soap between his hands, his eyes closed, burning water running over the planes of his face. He rubbed himself raw, scratching and clawing at his skin, the abrasions left behind by his fingernails burned in the hot water and lathered soap. It didn’t seem to matter that he’d lathered away the entire bar of soap or run the hot water until it streamed cold. [As he stood, palms resting on the slick tile and icy water running through his, running down his nose, drops hanging on his slack lips, he felt like he could never wash away his sin.](http://valvenaut.tumblr.com/post/149247779110/as-he-stood-palms-resting-on-the-slick-tile-and)

  


**_May 14, 1938: Cambridge, Massachusetts, USA._**

Lincoln had completed his second semester of lectures at Harvard and only two exams stood between him and the summer break. But instead of studying, he found himself sitting outside of the office of his English Literature professor. The halls were nearly empty, many students having already completed their finals. The campus had become eerily quiet.

Lincoln could barely sit still; his nerves were overtaking him. His palms were sweating, knees bouncing. He’d written his final for Dr. John Claybourne only three days earlier, so when he’d been summoned for a meeting, he was concerned that it must have something to do with his final test results.

He’d spent a great deal of time preparing for that test and crafted what he thought was an adequate essay; in fact, he’d been rather proud when he’d added his booklet to the pile and stepped out of the auditorium. But Dr. Claybourne had always been a bit of a mystery, and had a way of speaking volumes with very few words. His feedback was reserved, his comments concise. It was difficult for Lincoln to determine whether the man appreciated his work or not, but what he did know was that lively class discussions and the depths of the literature he read had expanded his perspective and better informed his opinions. He could almost feel the expansion of his mind.

Other courses had been a struggle in monotony. They had taken only his time and required very little in the way of an intellectual challenge for him. Economics and statistics were merely a barrier that prevented him from diving into the books that called to him from his shelves, from delving into the poems and stories that had become a great source of comfort for him. At times the lines on the page spoke the words he could not, expressed feelings he couldn’t articulate.

The office door behind Lincoln creaked open, startling him. He looked down at his watch. It was 10 am, on the nose. He got up from the bench and stood in front of the door that was slightly ajar. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves, preparing himself for the news that he may have failed one of the only courses he enjoyed. He knocked gently on the door with a single knuckle.

“Come in, Mr. Neal,” a familiar, gruff voice answered.

Lincoln pushed open the door and office behind it came into view. Dark mahogany bookcases stretched floor to ceiling on nearly every wall and covered two of the three windows. The smell of pipe tobacco filled the room with a sweet scent. The room was dim as a result, the only natural light trickled in through a crack in the thick velvet curtains. A small lamp set perched on a crowded desk, papers and books piled high, leaving only a small sliver of free working space. A floor lamp lit the seated figure of Dr. Claybourne in a large leather armchair, a newspaper covering his face, slow wafting billows of smoke drifting out from behind it.

“I wondered if you’d ever knock.” His voice was tight, escaping through the clenched teeth that held his pipe.

“I... I uh,” Lincoln stuttered. “I’m sorry, Professor Claybourne… I was jus–”

“Just worried that you failed your final.” Dr. Claybourne interjected as he closed the paper and got up from his chair, never making eye contact with Lincoln. He crossed the room and began rooting through a stack of books and papers on his desk, easily retrieving the exact document that he was searching for from among thousands that were nearly identical. He passed it to Lincoln and settled back in his seat.

Lincoln looked down at the wrinkled pages in his hands: this document was heavily read, bent and folded, creased and stained with circular coffee rings. In the top right corner was a grade marked in red: A+. Lincoln couldn’t hold back the gasp. The relief that flooded his veins made him feel as though his limbs were made of of rubber and he stumbled in place.

Dr. Claybourne smirked and took a long puff from his pipe. “That’s fine work, son.”

Lincoln looked up from his hands, smiling widely. He paused for a long moment before speaking. “Thank you,” he said, gesturing with the worn pages.

Dr. Claybourne sighed and began to recite from memory: “A man is not defined by his history or circumstance. The things one cannot change are merely the grains of sand in the concrete that form the foundation of a life. A man is what he makes himself, what he wants to be, and what he refuses to give up.” He set his pipe down in a dish on the small table next to him and folded his hands in his lap.

Lincoln’s eyes were wide. He recognized those words as his own, part of his essay, an excerpt from his concluding paragraph.

“Your writing is powerful, clear, concise, and yet incredibly thought provoking and insightful.” The professor stood and took a few slow steps toward him. “And not just in this piece.” He turned and pulled a few more papers from a stack. “Your poetry… it is stunning.” He smiled down at the written lines.

Lincoln was in shock. He’d done well in this course, but Dr. Claybourne had never so much as spoken a word to him. This was as wonderful as it was unexpected. “Sir, I… I don’t know what to say,” he stammered.

“A wordsmith at a loss for them,” Dr. Claybourne chuckled. “You know, you remind me of another young writer I had the pleasure of teaching.” He looked over Lincoln’s shoulder, pointing.

Lincoln turned around. In one of the only places where the wall was not covered in the worn spines of books a framed photo hung. Two men smiled out from the black and white image. One Lincoln recognized to be Dr. Claybourne, younger but his crooked nose and wide set eyes were unmistakable. Though he had to squint to bring the image into focus. The other man was young, wearing a cap and gown.

Dr. Claybourne moved to stand next to Lincoln, smiling up at the photo. “Tom Elliot,” he said sighing.

Lincoln knitted his brow, turning to look at his professor, then squinted back to the image. “Thomas Sterns Elliot?” Lincoln asked in a surprised tone.

Dr. Claybourne nodded.

Lincoln shook his head. “I’m sorry Dr. Claybourne, but are you comparing me to T.S. Eliot?” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Elliot was an esteemed alumni and an essayist of great notoriety. This had to be a joke.

“First, I’d prefer if you called me John,” he said smoothly turning to face Lincoln. “Dr. Claybourne makes me feel like an old man that I’m not yet ready to be.” He patted Lincoln on the shoulder. “And second, yes. Yes I am.” He pressed his lips into a line, balling his cheeks.

Lincoln couldn’t bring words to his lips; the absurdity of the statement had rendered him conversationally useless. His eyes drifted from the photo he’d been directed to look at, to another, hanging just below it. The subject, John Clayborne clad in a uniform; from his breast pocket hung a purple heart. Lincoln frowned at the photo and opened his mouth to inquire before his professor began to speak.

“I would like to invite you to be a teaching assistant for me in the fall.” He smiled looking at Lincoln’s bewildered squinting face. “I’d like to nurture that raw talent you’ve got.”

Lincoln turned away from the entrancing photo. “Dr. Clay…” he trailed off, noticing the raised eyebrows of his professor. “John,” he corrected. “I would be truly honoured.” He tipped his head and outstretched his hand. Questions about the photo could wait. This was a world renowned English professor, wanting to mentor him, telling him he had talent. Lincoln couldn’t wipe the grin from his face.

“Excellent news!” John shook Lincoln’s hand firmly before looking up at the clock on the wall that hung over the pictures. “Well, Mr. Neal,” he teased in a mocking tone. “I don’t mean to rush you out, but I have a faculty meeting that I would likely get rapped on the knuckles for missing.” He released Lincoln’s hand.

“Oh, no, no,” Lincoln shook his head. “Please, I can show myself out.” He pointed to the door. “Thank you so much for this opportunity. I hope I won’t let you down.” 

John put his arm over Lincoln’s shoulder, walking him toward the door. “Don’t worry yourself about that,” he laughed heartily. “But, you should worry about getting some glasses before all the squinting has you looking as old as I do,” he winked as he gently pushed Lincoln out the door.

Lincoln was alive with excitement over the news. He had planned to go back to his dorm to study with Garrett for their economics final, but he felt like he was crawling out of his skin. He couldn’t be cooped up. He needed air, needed to walk off the excitement before he could commit to endless hours of examining consumer demand curves and statistical analyses of effective marketing.

He let his feet carry him away from campus into the streets of Cambridge. He couldn’t wipe the smile off his face, or stop from looking down at the graded essay in his hand. The warmth from the sun could finally be felt in the spring air. He reached a road crossing and looked up at the store fronts across the street. None of them would have been particularly eye catching to him until today. A bank, an insurance broker, and an optometrist.

Lincoln realized that as he attempted to read the signage hanging in the windows his eyes were narrowed, lips pursed, squinting to discern the details. John had so easily picked up on something that Lincoln had been denying for months; he needed glasses. His heart sank; glasses would be the final nail in the coffin of his dream of flying. Had his eyes failed him a year earlier, this realization would have destroyed him, but instead it ached faintly, deep in his chest, like an old wound acting up before a heavy rain. Even he had begun to think of his dreams of flying as just that: dreams.

He looked either way down the street before jogging across it. He looked up at the sign that hung over the door: Sommers Optical. He pulled open the glass door and stepped inside. The walls were lined with frames and lenses, the light coming in the window reflected back from each pair. He stepped toward the nearest display and plucked a few pairs from the hooks on the wall and examined them. He put on a pair and looked at himself in the mirrored wall. He shook his head, rolling his eyes. He looked down the wall at the expanse of frames and was suddenly overwhelmed with choice. Just as he turned to leave a small, gentle voice caught his attention.

“Is there something I can help you with?” A short young woman was walking toward him. Her blond hair was tucked back in a neat bun. Her smile was bright and warm.

Lincoln returned her warm and welcoming smile with a hesitant one. She was tiny but her personality was large and electrifying. Energy radiated from her. “I uh… I was just looking really,” he managed. Why did she make him so nervous? “I think I might soon be in the market for a pair.”

“Let’s have a look then.” She grinned and stepped closer, placing her hand on his shoulder and tilting her head as she looked at him. “That’s a nice southern drawl you’ve got there.” She turned his chin with a curled finger. “Do you mind me asking where you’re from?” She moved her hands to either side of his face, holding him at arm’s length, scrutinizing his features.

He laughed at her easy charm. “North Carolina,” he said softly. He smiled down at her. The top of her head didn’t even reach his chin and yet her presence filled the room. She practically glowed. “And you?” he asked.

“I grew up here in Cambridge, this is my father’s store,” she answered. She was distracted by her task. She stared into his eyes for a moment before her eyes widened revealing the depth of her bright green irises. She dropped her hands from his face. “I’ve got just the thing.” She closed her small hand over his forearm and dragged him to a display on the other side of the shop. She picked a pair of thick-rimmed tortoise shell frames from the wall and unfolded the arms.

Lincoln furrowed his brow. If he was going to wear glasses he was imagining something a little more subtle. “I don’t think those are–” he began.

“Oh shhhh,” she interrupted. She placed the dark frames carefully on his face, tucking them gently behind his ears. A line formed between her brows as she adjusted them, her fingers tenderly placed on the corners of the frame. She brushed away a few errant hairs from his forehead before taking a few steps back to admire her handiwork. She closed her hands together and tilted her head to the side.

“Well?” Lincoln raised his eyebrows.

“See for yourself,” she winked, grabbing his shoulders and spinning him in place. She stood behind him on the tips of her toes, resting her chin on his shoulder.

Lincoln looked at the dark frames around his eyes for only a moment before his eyes drifted to the reflection of the woman at his back. He smiled at the amused expression she wore, but he was almost sure he could sense something more in soft curve of her smile. Something that made him feel special. She was the most fascinating woman he’d ever met and they’d shared only a brief moment together.

“Just right, I’d say,” she beamed. “Even more handsome with them.” Her cheeks reddened and she averted her eyes from his in the mirror.

Lincoln’s heart jumped in his chest. He chewed on his lip and smoothed his sweating palms over his shirt before turning around. To his surprise, the young woman was facing him reaching her hand out. “Julie,” she said warmly, taking Lincoln’s hand in hers. “I’m Julie.”

  


**_July 25, 1939: Fuquay-Varina, North Carolina, USA._**

“Julie, I am so sorry.” Lincoln apologized and closed the door to the study behind them, walking past her to look out the window.

“It’s okay, Charlie,” Julie said softly. Her voice was always so soothing.

“Huh,” Lincoln huffed, looking out over the the sprawling fields lit by the rising moon.

Julie stepped behind him and placed her hand on his shoulder. “I really don’t think you need to apologize.” She squeezed gently, resting her chin on her hand. “Your parents were actually kind of sweet.”

“Ha!” he laughed, shaking his head and turning to face her. “You call spending the entire night nagging and bragging, sweet?” Lincoln had prepared himself for a night of torture when he’d stepped through the front door, hand-in-hand with Julie. He hadn’t been home since the summer of 1938. Dr. Clayborne had employed him in May to work on an archival project with the library so he’d been renting a small apartment in Cambridge over the summer.

”Well, to be honest...” Julie tugged gently at the lapels of his jacket. “You’d had me believing I was walking into a lion’s den!” she teased, laying her palms over his chest.

“The fact that you believe you haven’t means they’ve got you right where they want you,” Lincoln said, wrapping his hands around her wrists and pushing her away. He stepped past her and rested his elbow on the mantle of the fireplace. “I never said they weren’t charming.” He brought his thumb to his lips and chewed at the nail. He could hear the soft fall of her footsteps on the carpet as she approached him again.

“I noticed you failed to mention your change in major.” She placed her hand on his back.

“As much as I despise what just happened down there, I don’t really want to kill my father,” Lincoln joked. “Telling him his only son is an English Literature major is a sure-fire way to induce a coronary episode.” He turned around and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, interlacing his fingers behind her head.

“He has a way of monopolizing the conversation, you could have just blamed it on that,” she teased, nudging him with her elbow.

Lincoln chuckled. “He does indeed, and perhaps I should have.” Lincoln rubbed gently over her bare arm. “I’m just glad Garrett is still toiling away in finance so I can effectively throw them off my trail.” He smiled down at her.

“And I am sure Garrett is more than willing to aid you in your deception,” she smirked, taking Lincoln’s hands in hers, rubbing her thumbs over his knuckles.

Lincoln grinned. It was comforting that the two most important people in his life were also close friends. Lincoln looked over her shoulder at his father’s desk near the far wall, it was littered with newspapers unfolded maps.“I will say that I was rather surprised to hear that my father has been keeping abreast of the conflict in Europe.” He looked down at his feet.

“Oh,” Julie said in surprise. “I don’t recall that discussion.” She narrowed her eyes, her features were contemplative.

Lincoln shook his head. “No, that’s not something he would discuss in front of…” he trailed off. “At dinner.” Lincoln averted his eyes from her, chewing on his lower lip, and scratching at his thumb nail.

Julie squinted, confused by his sudden anxious behaviour. She placed her hands on his waist. “At least he seemed to like that I call you Charlie,” she grinned, shaking him.

He sighed and looked down at her, narrowing his eyes. He’d begged her to call him Lincoln, but she was obstinate and not one to take direction. He’d become convinced that she had only done it in first place because he has been so adamant that she didn’t. “Oh, nothing aside from you announcing you deep appreciation for fiscal responsibility and conservative politics could have made him happier,” Lincoln said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

“I guess I just prefer to focus on the positive.” She leaned forward and rested her cheek on his chest.

Lincoln ran his fingers over her soft hair. “It’s one of your many charming qualities.” He pressed a chaste kiss to the top of her head, hugging her tightly. “But even your nearly unflappable optimism will struggle to put a positive spin on the conversation I am sure we will be having at breakfast,” he chuckled into her hair.

Julie pulled back and looked up at him. “And what conversation might that be?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

Lincoln pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Oh, something to do with intentions and futures.” He ran his fingers over his chin, turning away. “I wouldn’t worry too much,” he teased, looking sideways at her and smirking.

She pursed her lips and punched him in the shoulder. “You are insufferable!” she giggled.

Lincoln captured her wrist and pulled her into him. “Insufferable?” He held her face in one hand, fingers trailing over her cheekbone, the other clutching at her waist. “You sure about that?” He smiled as he tipped her chin and pressed his lips to hers.

As she collapsed into the kiss, and her weight rested against his, Lincoln felt the same sense of relief he always had in these moments. He cared for Julie, loved making her happy, enjoyed the feeling of her smiling lips on his. It wasn’t the feeling of love that he’d read about in poems or novels, not a desperate or fiery all-consuming passion, but perhaps that kind of love wasn’t even real. What he shared with Julie was soft and caring. He was happy, that was enough.

Lincoln was grateful for her. At a time in his life when he feared his feelings, she had given him hope, hope that he might be able to live a life free of his tormenting thoughts. It was easier when he was with her, easier to be a version of himself that he didn’t have to fight against. But his eyes still lingered on bare skin in the locker room, his mouth curled into a smile when they passed an attractive man on the street. When he was alone in his bed, it was not Julie he saw behind his closed lids. He’d come to accept that it would always be there, those feelings and desires, but he was resigned to fight them, for her, for them.

Julie reached up and gripped firmly into the back of his hair, an attempt to deepen their chaste kiss.

Lincoln tensed and broke it, as he always did.

She sighed, resting her forehead on his chin. “Always so proper, Mr. Neal,” she said, sliding her hands down his neck and resting them on his shoulders.”You make me feel like wicked temptress trying to steal your virtue,” she laughed softly.

He pulled her into a hug, and kissed her temple. He wished he could take the laughter at face value, but Lincoln could sense tension, could see it in the clenched muscles of her jaw. He hated making her feel that way. He was glad of his status as a southern gentleman, it had allowed him to hold off on the intimacy he was not yet prepared for.

She stepped back from him, tucking a fallen strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s been a long day.” She cupped his elbow in her delicate hand. “I think I’m going to head up to my room.” Her eyes longing, her lower lip pinched between her teeth, she turned from him, her hand slipping slowly from his arm.

As she turned from him, he wanted to reach for her, to take her in his arms and kiss her the way he knew he should. He wanted to give that to her, to be the eager and willing man she deserved, but he wasn’t. She was good at hiding her disappointment, masking the feelings of rejection behind her loving smile, but he could see it eating away at her cheerful exterior more and more each time he pulled his lips from hers, or stopped her exploring hands.

She looked over he shoulder at him, the corner of her mouth turning up into a weak smile. “I love you, Lincoln,” she said sweetly. 

His name falling from her lips was like a shot to the gut. Until that moment he was certain that he could feel no deeper remorse for his dispassion, but this, this ate away at his insides, burning within him like a raging inferno. Every other pang of guilt he’d felt before was eclipsed entirely.

Her eyes lingered on his for a moment. A tear collected in the corner and she turned away.

“Julie,” he whispered to himself. He was doing this to her, making her feel like she wasn’t enough even though she was everything. She was perfect, sweet and loving, supportive and kind. It was he who was defective. How dare he slowly dim the beautiful light inside of her? A light that was once as bright as the sun, now faded and dull, all because of him. He had to fix this, to be better, to be hers.

As her body moved gracefully toward the door, he wrapped his hand around her elbow. She stopped and turned to face him.

His eyes darted between hers. He took a deep breath and pulled her to him, his large hands placed softly against the smooth skin of her slender neck. He leaned in and captured her mouth in his.

Julie gasped, wrapping her arms around his waist, clutching at the fabric of his jacket as she allowed her lips to melt into his.

A familiar anxiety flooded Lincoln’s veins, every instinct fighting against his will to please. This feels wrong. Do it. I don’t think I can. You have to. Is this love? It must be. I feel like I’m dying? Be a man. I want this to stop. No.

Julie let her tongue slip between her lips, grazing over Lincoln’s.

His heart pounded in his chest, and he could feel his limbs going numb. His eyes stung, tears collecting in his dark lashes. He wanted to escape, but the demanding voice in his head screamed, refusing to be ignored. He parted his lips and met her tongue with his own.

Julie panted into his open mouth, clawing at his back. She pulled his lower lip into her mouth nipping at it.

Lincoln could feel the smile on her lips. She was happy. He was pleasing her, finally giving her what she was owed. His misery was his to bear, and he would not make it her burden. He could learn to be this for her. He had to. He needed to be what she needed.

Julie pulled away breathless. She looked up at him, her cheeks rosy and glowing.

He rested his chin on the top of her head, his arms wrapped around her neck, staring at the wall in front of him. This was what his life was to be, and he was determined to accept it. “I love you too, Julie.”

  


**_September 8, 1939: Cambridge, Massachusetts, USA._**

“Neutrality?” Lincoln’s voice shook with rage. “People are dying and I am supposed to just sit here?” He threw his arms up in frustration.

“There are those that believe this is not our war to fight, Lincoln.” John Claybourne’s tone was calm and soothing, but in no way patronizing.

The papers had been spattered with news of unrest in Europe for over a year. But things had come to a head only days earlier when the German invasion of Poland had lead to a declaration of war by many nations. But the U.S. had vowed to remain a neutral party, merely increasing its coastal security.

Lincoln threw the paper in his hands to the floor. “This kind of hatred is the world’s problem!” He began to pace the room, the headline staring up at him from the wrinkled pages on the floor: Bombs Rain Down on Warsaw. He grew even more frustrated by the prominent position of Yankees vs. Red Sox score on the front page. “There are innocent lives being stolen and we’re more concerned with the score of a damn baseball game?” He kicked the pages and they scattered across the floor.

John remained seated at his desk, elbows resting on it, hands folded under his chin. He peered at Lincoln over his reading glasses.

Lincoln stopped his pacing, his breath was escaping as angry huffs of air. He looked up and found himself standing in front of the ticking clock hanging over the familiar photos on the wall. “What would you have done... back then?” Lincoln pointed at the photo of his professor in military garb. “Knowing people were being taken from their homes, separated from their loved ones, treated like animals.” He hung his head. “Knowing that if just one man could be stopped, if Hitler could be stopped, that it would all end.” Lincoln turned to his mentor, his friend. “All the while knowing there was nothing you could do?” His eyes were wide, brow wrinkled.

John removed his glasses, folded the arms, and hooked them on the collar of his shirt. He cracked his knuckles, drew in a deep breath, sitting in silence for a long moment before speaking. “Who said there’s nothing you can do?” he said smoothly, his mouth turning up at the corner as he raised his brows.

~~~ * ~~~

“Lincoln?” Garrett questioned, following his friend into his room.

Lincoln ripped open his closet door and began yanking clothes from their hangers, stuffing them into the suitcase on his bed. He was muttering to himself, a list, things he needed. He pushed by Garrett and began rooting in the top drawer of his dresser, throwing things onto the floor until he found his traveling documents.

“Lincoln, please tell me what’s going on.” Garrett’s plea went unanswered.

Lincoln pulled another suitcase out from under his bed and began filling it with books and other personal effects. He patted his pockets and snatched his jacket from the post of his bed, cramming it in among the mess of jumbled items.

Garrett stomped toward him. “Lincoln!” he yelled, grabbing Lincoln’s arm and spinning him around. “Talk to me,” he said, hands gripping firmly to Lincoln’s shoulders, eyes searching out his friend’s.

Lincoln tried to shake free, but Garrett held tight. He huffed in frustration and met Garrett’s gaze. “I’m leaving,” he stated plainly.

Garrett laughed, rolling his eyes. “And going where exactly?” he teased, loosening his grip, relaxing his shoulders, but the concern had not yet faded from his eyes.

“Canada.” Lincoln finally shook himself free. He stood, shoulders square, chin tipped.

Garrett wrinkled his brow. “Pfffft!” he scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

Lincoln mirrored him, leaning his weight on one leg, raising his eyebrows above the frame of his glasses.

Garrett’s eyes widened and his mouth fell slack. “Wait… you’re serious?” He took a small step back.

Lincoln nodded, unfolding his arms.

Garrett’s shock gave way to confusion. “What… Canada… What’s in… What are you…” he stammered, his eyes drifted around the room, never settling.

“The war, Garrett,” he said calmly. “I can volunteer, with the Royal Air Force… in Canada.” He watched as his words began to sink in.

Garrett’s eyes wandered, his lips parting as he tried to form a response.

“I can help… I can fly.” Lincoln couldn’t help the smile that crept across his face at the thought of finally realizing his dreams.

Garrett rubbed his temples. “Well first, I think those things on your face might keep you grounded, there pal,” he said, gesturing to Lincoln’s glasses.

Lincoln rolled his eyes. He’d considered this possibility but it didn’t matter. “I don’t care!” He slapped his thighs in exasperation. “If I can’t fly then so be it.” He turned back to his messily packed bag and closed the lid, forcing it to latch. “But I have to do something.”

“So you’re just going to leave? Now… the semester just started!” He pulled out Lincoln’s desk chair and dropped into it. “How are you even going to get there?”

“I’ll hitch if I have to… But I’m going.” Lincoln stared down at Garrett, trying to convey his sincerity. Nothing was going to stop him. He was resolved. He would do his part, no matter how small a role he may play. There was so much in his life that felt out of his control, so much he wished was different. But this, this was an opportunity to take hold of the reins, to make it follow where he led.

Garrett was quiet for a few moments as Lincoln gathered his bags before breaking the silence. “What about Julie?” he asked, suddenly.

Lincoln stopped, his body cemented in place. He knew this decision was rash, but he knew she would support him. She shared his frustration, was appalled by the atrocity and senseless death. He knew she would not stand in his way, and for that he was grateful. “I’m going to see her.” He placed the last of his bags in the hallway outside his door. “I know she’ll understand.” And she would. But he knew it would crush her, that he would have to watch as his words tore through her, listen to her beg him to make promises he wasn’t sure he could keep. His safe return was not something he could guarantee. He had no idea what lay ahead, but he knew it was the right choice.

Garrett nodded slowly in his seat, hunched over, elbows resting on his thighs, fingers interlaced.

As Lincoln collected his things and headed down the hallway to the stairs, he felt a hand grab his arm. He turned his head to see Garrett’s smirking face.

”If you think you’re going without me, then you’re crazy and I have to question if you know me at all,” he winked, releasing Lincoln’s arm and jogging down the hall of their shared apartment to his room.

Lincoln placed his bags on the floor and leaned against the wall, listening to the sounds of Garrett’s drawers and doors opening and closing, to his excited questions, responded to when given the chance. Garrett’s friendship was something he treasured, and it warmed his heart that even though, for all intents and purposes, this was a stupid and reckless decision, Garrett was ready to take the leap with him. They would go on this journey together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I hope that you enjoyed this installment. <3
> 
> I can't wait to hear your thoughts! 
> 
> Comments and Kudos are welcomed and GREATLY appreciated! <3
> 
>  **Art for this Chapter:**  
>  By Valvenaut:  
> [Lincoln in the shower](http://valvenaut.tumblr.com/post/149247779110/as-he-stood-palms-resting-on-the-slick-tile-and)  
> [Chapter detail collage](http://valvenaut.tumblr.com/post/149247779000/remembertherandler-two-fronts-ch4-what)
> 
> By Magicbubblepipe:  
>  [Garrett, Lincoln, and Julie](http://remembertherandler.tumblr.com/post/165666339790/magicbubblepipe-link-garrett-and-julie)


	5. From Across the Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Recommended Listening:**   
>  [Lotus Flower - Radiohead](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cfOa1a8hYP8)   
>  [In The Mood (Cover) - Swing City](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7DAOCx6Izmw)   
>  [My Kingdom - Evangeline](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JH-KhhVy4_I)

**_August 25, 1940: Tadcaster, Yorkshire, UK._**

“How long does it take to set up a drum kit, Cliff?” Teddy leaned his weight against a wide beam in the middle of The Hart and Thistle, chewing on a toothpick he had shoved between his teeth.

Cliff rolled his eyes as he screwed down the pin of his hi-hat cymbal. “Maybe you should spend less time scrutinizing my efforts and lend a hand!” he laughed.

“You are aware of who you are talking to, right Cliff?” Rhett chuckled as he adjusted the knobs of his bass, plucking at the strings, carefully tuning each one. “Why do you think he decided to play the guitar instead of this beast?” he said, gesturing at the massive instrument in his hands. “Too much work for him!” Rhett teased, shooting him a knowing wink.

Teddy smirked, pinching the toothpick between his fingers, twisting it. “Just be glad I don’t, Rhett.” He pushed himself from the beam and strode toward the stage. “Seeing someone _actually_ play that thing might hurt your feelings.” He plucked the toothpick from his teeth and smacked his lips. “But who knows… you just might learn a few things.” He flicked the wooden splinter at Rhett.

Rhett narrowed one his eyes, flaring his nostrils.

Teddy stepped up onto the stage. “I’m a prodigy and you know it!” He slapped Rhett’s back.

Rhett rested his bass against the wall and shoved Teddy playfully.

The others chuckled at them and continued setting the stage for their show.

“Someone’s even more full of himself than normal.” A small and gentle voice teased from across the room. A dark-haired, fair skinned woman looked up from the table she was wiping.

The Hart and Thistle was a regular stop for them, almost like a homecoming each time they played there. Teddy had never really settled; he bounced around from couch to couch, imposing on his bandmates. But Rhett had rented a small flat just around the corner from the cozy tavern.

“Oh, Val.” Teddy smiled at her as he hopped down from the stage and walked toward her. “I’m not going to have to show you too, am I?” Teddy flashed his eyebrows, hooking his thumbs under the straps of his suspenders and rocking on his heels.

They had come to know the owner, Gerald, fairly well. And though the man was happy to have them play, because they drew a bit of a crowd, he was never to keen on having Teddy in such close proximity to his only daughter, Valerie. “You’ll be showin’ ‘er nothin.’” Gerald popped up from behind the bar, and slammed the cupboard he’d just been rummaging through.

Valerie smiled and looked over he shoulder at her father. “I can handle Teddy, Father.” She turned back to Teddy. “Don’t you worry about that.”

“Handle me, huh?” Teddy teased, stepping a little closer.

She smirked. “Mmhmm,” she purred as she leaned closer.

Teddy’s gulp could be heard around the room as the cheeky grin he’d been sporting dissolved.

Valerie tilted her lips toward his cheek and spoke softly in his ear. “But I don’t think you could handle me.” [She trailed her finger down his forearm and stepped away, looking back at him over her shoulder.](http://valvenaut.tumblr.com/post/149843055160/valerie-tilted-her-lips-toward-his-cheek-and)

Rhett’s booming laugh filled the pub and was soon joined by those of everyone inside.

Teddy looked around at their smiling faces, nodding. “Oh, ha ha…” he said, turning around and sneering sarcastically at his friends.

Will snickered in the corner, covering his mouth with his hand. Cliff and Glenn were smiling and nudging each other with closed fists. Rhett stepped down off the stage and moved to stand next to Teddy. “You don’t stand a chance,” he said, patting his hand on Teddy’s shoulder.

Teddy sighed as his eyes traveled over Valerie, who was now leaning on the bar talking to her father. “We’ll see,” he said slyly. Teddy shoved Rhett, sending him stumbling backward. “Don’t act like I haven’t watched your charms fail you, McLaughlin,” Teddy teased, brows raised, tongue darting between his lips.

Rhett steadied himself and smiled at his closest friend. Teddy had been there to witness many of Rhett’s romantic exploits. When they were young Teddy had been sitting next to him, teasing and encouraging him to kiss his neighbour Margaret on the cheek. He’d hated Teddy for putting him on the spot, for exposing his insecurities.

When Rhett had first agreed to leave everything he’d ever known behind and join Teddy on the road, he’d had woman after woman shoved in front of him by his well-meaning friend. Rhett tried to seem appreciative, to smile and entertain, only to have Teddy give him a hard time when, after a dance or two, he was once again leaning against the bar alone. Rhett knew that Teddy was only trying to help, to show him a good time. But what he didn’t realize was that each time he had to fake a smile, feign interest, spend an evening lying to these women, to Teddy, to himself, it ate away at him. But all that had changed just over two years ago, in this very pub.

~~~ * ~~~

Rhett leaned against the wall, his forearm resting above the head of a short brunette, a girl Teddy had introduced him to before disappearing into the crowd. He smiled down at her. She was sweet enough, with a shy smile and bright eyes. He wished he could see something more, wished he could want something more, but there was no flutter in his stomach, no thrumming heart in his chest. These woman were a near constant reminder of what he was. It was something he had come to terms with, but knew would make his life a difficult path to tread.

He laughed when she smiled, he ran his fingers over her arm when she did the same to him. But he could feel his resolve, already paper thin, waver. This had been their eighth gig in as many days. Normally with a day or two reprieve, Rhett could bolster himself and prepare. These long stints on the road were akin to torture, and when Teddy smiled at him through the crowd, tipping his glass, Rhett unraveled. Each word he spoke began to sting, the lie scratching at his insides. “I’m sorry,” Rhett said softly as he stepped away from her. “I can’t do this anymore.” He headed toward the back door, needing air, needing to escape the expectation, the pressure.

Rhett rounded the corner into the narrow hallway and nearly ran into a young man leaning against the wall. “Sorry,” he mumbled as he stepped around him, continuing toward the propped open door. He looked back over his shoulder expecting to be met with a sneer and perhaps even a foul word or two. Instead the man was wearing a shy smile that spread across his face, wrinkling the skin around his eyes.

“Don’t be,” he said sweetly, placing his palm on the small oak door of the bathroom, raising his eyebrows. He was approximately Rhett’s age, in his twenties, but much shorter, his hair a strawberry blond. His features were smooth and symmetrical, his cheeks adorned with a few light freckles. He was handsome, sweet and charming.

Rhett’s brows furrowed for a moment before he realized what was happening. He was being propositioned, propositioned by a man. He swallowed around the lump in his throat. His heart began pounding in his chest, his palms moistening. He’d be lying if he’d said he’d never thought about it, let his mind wander when he was alone. But this was something that he’d only ever allowed himself to dream about. It was nothing more than a fantasy; allowing it to become more than that would mean finally admitting what he’d always known in his heart.

The ginger-haired man slipped through the door, leaving Rhett alone in the small hallway.

Rhett looked from the door that opened into the cool Yorkshire evening and the bathroom door that had just swung closed: one a temporary relief from the oppressive air that he was attempting to escape, behind the other, something his soul longed for, a part of himself clawing for satisfaction, screaming to be satiated.

Rhett was tired of bandaging the wound, desperate for a healing salve, something that could offer him more than a moment’s peace, something that might allow him to see his romantic future as more than a depressing series of false smiles and lies. He ran his hands through his hair, staring down at his shoes. He’d punished himself long enough for the feelings and desires he could not control. He stepped toward the door pushed it open.

The intriguing man that had let loose something inside of Rhett, something that he had tied up and restrained for his entire life, stood in front of the small sink, staring at his reflection in the muddled mirror. He caught Rhett’s reflection and smiled as he turned around. “Glad you accepted my offer,” he winked.

Rhett approached him carefully, slowly, his eyes fixed on the man’s golden ones, partially hidden behind a sweeping red fringe. He felt a little like he was cornering a wild animal. Everything about the moment was so foreign, and yet he couldn’t control the hammering of his heart, or the involuntary response of his body as he inched closer. The anticipation and adrenaline coursing through his veins was an unfamiliar but welcome sensation.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be interested.” The man tipped his head to the side.

Rhett’s slow methodical approach gave way to a desperate grab for whatever he could reach. He wrapped his arm around the man’s waist, fingers knotting into the fabric of his shirt. He shoved him into the wall next to the sink and stared down at him, one palm resting against his lower back, the other pressing his shoulder into the wall.

The redhead looked up at him, eyes wide, chewing on his lower lip. “I’m Ja–”

“Stop talking,” Rhett interrupted as his eyes darted quickly over the the prone man’s features. “Just stop.” He took the man’s smiling mouth in his own. Rhett’s lips met eager ones, more practiced and confident. He may have been larger, been the one whose hands pressed firmly into soft skin, but he was not the one in control. In fact, he felt entirely out of control.

He could feel roaming hands over his back and it was thrilling. The soft mouth under his was warm and welcoming. Rhett’s hand slipped behind the man’s neck and pulled him closer, deepening their kiss. He parted his lips and the tongue that had been begging entry forced its way inside. Rhett could feel a rumbling in his chest as a quiet but satisfied sound escaped around the intrusion. The lips on his turned up into a smile. For so long he had denied himself this comfort, the touch he longed for, strong hands on his body, the feeling of lips on his that didn’t have him fighting a battle inside of himself.

Just as Rhett’s hand slid down over the small curve of the man’s lower back, fingers grazing over the small gap in the back of his trousers, the door of the bathroom swung open. Rhett felt his heart stutter against his breastbone as his body went rigid. His pulled back from the kiss, standing frozen in place, afraid to turn around.

“Rhett?”

The voice that filled the room was familiar, unmistakeable. It was Teddy. Rhett’s hands dropped to his sides as he turned to look at his friend.

Teddy’s eyes widened as the ginger man in front Rhett came into view. His mouth hung open a moment before he spoke. “I’m sorry… I… I.. didn’t realize there was someone… I’m sorry,” Teddy stammered as he backed up through the door, leaving it swinging on its hinges.

Rhett’s mind began to swim, flooded with thoughts and fears. How could he have been so stupid? He’d exposed himself after working so hard to keep this a secret. He’d been foolish, he’d given in and in an instant it had ruined him. He squinted his eyes closed and rubbed at his temples with his thumb and forefinger as a palm came to rest on his chest.

“Don’t let that spoil our fun.” The beautiful stranger rose up on his toes, attempting to recapture Rhett’s mouth.

“Get out,” Rhett murmured under his breath.

“B… but we were–” he sputtered, smiling up at Rhett.

“I said get out!” Rhett hollered, slamming his fist into the wall. His knuckles stung as the warm blood began to trickle down over his fingers.

The man trembled against Rhett’s chest, drawing in a quick breath.

Rhett pushed his body away from the wall and stared down at his feet. His breathing was rapid and unsteady, long draws intermixed with short gasps as the man that had given him his first real kiss slipped away under his arm and the through the door.

As the door closed Rhett’s knees buckled and he stumbled into the sink. He grabbed onto the edge and pulled himself up. His pulse was hammering in his ears, the look on Teddy’s face playing over and over in his head. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, his chest was tight. His fingers fumbled with the steel taps until he finally managed to run cold water into the porcelain basin. He watched the water flow from the tap, spiraling down and around the brown stain surrounding the silver drain. He held out his trembling hand, looking down at the lines and folds before moving it into the path of the cold stream. The clear water ran red as the blood from his cut knuckles swirled around, coating the white sink. He allowed the cool liquid to wash away the crimson stain before cupping his palm to capturing a small pool. He threw it onto his face and gripped firmly to the edges of the sink.

Water dripped from the hairs on his chin as he looked into the mirror, speckled and blacked around the edge where the backing had been worn away. He furrowed his brow and looked away from his reflection. How could he face Teddy if he couldn’t even look himself in the mirror? He would never understand. Rhett turned of the running water and looked back into the mirror, past himself at the door behind him. On the other side was a world he wasn’t sure he was ready to face. Something so seemingly small, a kiss, had changed everything.

He wiped the water from his beard, and flicked it from his hand into the sink, taking a final look at himself in mirror. “Time to face the music.” Rhett turned and pulled open the door to see Teddy leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, holding a cigarette between his lips.

Teddy exhaled a cloud of smoke that drifted up around his face as his eyes met Rhett’s. “Have fun in there?” Teddy said, raising his brows.

Rhett’s mouth felt dry, his throat parched; he wanted to speak, but he could only manage mumbled hesitations.

Teddy pushed away from the wall, standing tall in the middle of the hallway, eyes never leaving Rhett’s.

Rhett’s stammers finally formed words. “Teddy…. Teddy, I can explain… I… I was–”

Teddy raised his hand between them. “Rhett... stop,” Teddy sighed. “You don’t need to explain,” he said softly.

“I’m sorry… I–” Rhett looked up at the ceiling.

“You don’t need to apologize either,” Teddy stopped Rhett, placing a warm palm on his chest.

Rhett’s brows knitted as he looked down at his friend, into warm and accepting eyes. He’d expected Teddy to run, to think he was defective or broken, but he found the same Teddy that had always been there, the same tenderness and camaraderie. “Aren’t you… Don’t you think… How can you…” Rhett searched his mind for the right words, but was dumbfounded.

Teddy smiled and shook his head. “Who you kiss… that’s your business, Rhett.” Teddy gripped Rhett’s shoulder. “It doesn’t change who you are…” Teddy shook Rhett until Rhett finally returned his smile by turning up just the corner of his mouth. “It doesn’t change anything.” Teddy let his hand fall to his side. “Well… except I won’t be throwing lasses at ya anymore.”

Rhett’s laugh echoed around the narrow corridor. “I don’t need you to be throwing lads at me either!” He nudged Teddy with a closed fist.

Teddy’s laughter melded with Rhett’s. As the joyous sounds subsided, Teddy smoothed his features and grabbed hold of Rhett’s shoulder. “I want you to know that I’ll always be here, Rhett.” He stuck his cigarette back in his mouth and slapped Rhett on the chest. “Don’t go forgettin' that.”

~~~ * ~~~

Rhett smiled at the memory as he threw his arm around Teddy’s shoulder and whispered into Teddy’s ear. “I’ve never been turned down by anyone I’ve actually _tried_ to charm,” Rhett chuckled.

“Pfft!” Teddy snorted. “Someone’s pretty smug,” he teased.

Rhett tilted his head, cocking an eyebrow. “What can I say… I’m irresistible.” Rhett was being facetious. Since admitted to himself what he was, and what he needed, he’d been successful in finding eager and willing partners. But it was never more than a tryst, never more than desperate touches with near strangers. He’d enjoyed himself, discovered his desires, opened up to himself, but he longed for more and feared he might never find it.

In his experience, his love life was designated to the dark shadows of narrow alleys, the stolen privacy of hastily locked public restrooms, the places no one would look, the places no one could see. It was a life of hiding. Teddy had accepted him, supported him, and even helped him bag a conquest or two, but that kind of acceptance was not a luxury afforded to him in small, rural England, and likely never would be.

He tried not to let thoughts of emotional loneliness tarnish everything that was right in his life. He was grateful for what he had, for the freedom and happiness he felt each time he stood on stage surrounded by his friends, making music. He’d escaped an existence he thought would swallow him, grief so all-consuming that he’d lost himself in it. So each time he plucked at the stings and felt the reverberating air rumble in his chest, he was grateful.

“Hey!” Cliff called to them from the stage. “If you two are quite done stroking each other’s egos, or whatever it is you’re doing… a little help?” he laughed, gesturing around the stage at the mess of instrument cases, stands, and stools.

”All right, all right,” Teddy sighed. “I suppose I could be persuaded to move a stool or two,” he winked at Rhett, heading for the stage.

Rhett shook his head, rolling his eyes, and followed after him.

~~~ * ~~~

The sun had set in Tadcaster and the pub had become a bustling hive of activity, packed wall to wall with patrons. Laughter and the sound of clinking glasses filtered through the air. Rhett’s hand wrapped around the neck of his bass as he leaned into the body. He smiled at his friends, his bandmates, watching them prepare their instruments. Cliff’s tapping on the edge of the snare drum, Glenn wetting the reed of his sax, Will pressing down the finger buttons and adjusting the mouthpiece of his trumpet.

“You ready lads?” Teddy’s voice sounded from off stage. A smear of red lipstick ran down over his chin onto his neck. A small blonde woman snuck around the corner, running her hand over his waist as she slipped past him, skipping into the crowd, adjusting her hair pins and flattening her skirt. Teddy stepped up onto the stage and threw the strap of his guitar over his shoulder, shooting Rhett a wink over his shoulder.

Rhett rolled his eyes. “You got a little somethin’... uh...” Rhett thumbed his chin where Teddy’s was stained.

Teddy wiped his chin with the back of his hand and looked down at the smear. “Comes with the territory,” he taunted, licking his lips before turning back to face the crowd gathering in front of the stage.

Rhett nudged Will with his elbow and shook his head. “He sure thinks he’s somethin’ special doesn’t he?” Rhett chuckled.

Will’s cheeks flushed, his mouth turning up into a shy grin as he brought the steel mouthpiece of his trumpet to his lips.

Teddy’s voice sounded loudly over the crowd. “Oy!” he yelled over the din. The crowd began to quiet. “We’re The Calderdale Lads and we’ve got some great music lined up for you tonight!” He positioned his fingers on the strings looking back over his shoulder at the others as the room erupted with applause.

Rhett’s body began to vibrate with excitement, like it did each time they were about to start a show. The energy of the smiling, slightly intoxicated gathering of swaying exhilarated bodies had a way of infusing the air with an electric hum. It was invigorating.

“Ah one, two, a one two three four!” Teddy counted off.

Cliff’s bass drum began to hammer out a rhythm that Rhett’s fingers fell in time with, quickly joined by Will’s wailing trumpet. Happy laughter and called orders for drinks joined the music; the room was alive with sound. People began to dance, arms swinging, skirts floating over the dance floor.

Rhett played along, strumming out the rhythmic notes of the bassline one song after the other. The air was thick with smoke and heat; his sweat soaked through his shirt and ran down over his brow from the ends of his hair. He took a small moment between songs to drink down a tall glass of water, the condensation cooling his hot skin as it dripped down over his fingers. He wiped his brow with his forearm, lifting his hat from his hair.

Teddy turned around, lifting his pint from the stool next to him and downing the last of the warm ale. “One more before the break, fellas?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Rhett looked to the others and was met with a round of nods. He smiled back at Teddy. “One more,” Rhett agreed. He slipped his hat back down over his head and wiped his damp hands on his trousers.

Glenn’s sax rang out the first notes of the newest song in their set. It was an American song, one that one of Teddy’s acquaintances from the nearby Royal Air Force base had introduced them to after hearing them play a month prior.

Teddy’s voice rang out with the first lyrics to “In The Mood” the crowd was bouncing and hopping on their toes, dancing arm and arm. Smiling faces spinning around, laughing and joyful.

Rhett’s heart was light, his fingers relaxed as they found the notes easily. His cheeks were rounded by the wide smile on his face. His eyes traveled over the jumble of smiling faces, to the bar where Gerald was filling drink orders, looking entirely unfazed by the line that was forming in front of him. Rhett held in a laugh as he watch Valerie gather up all of the empty glasses that had piled up in front of her lackadaisical father.

Over the gathering of patrons waiting at the bar, Rhett watched the door of the main entrance swing open. From Rhett’s vantage point it was easy to discern the characteristic uniforms worn by Pilots from the nearby base. He watched as they worked their way through the crowd and found a small opening against the end of the bar nearest the stage.

Rhett only vaguely recognized one of the men, he couldn’t quite recall his name, but it was the American he’d met through Teddy. The others were likely with him. More Americans? He narrowed his eyes staring at the backs of two men hunched over the bar ordering drinks. One with light hair, the other dark. Rhett looked away, turning to Will and smiling, but he felt his eyes drawn back to the mysterious pair. The crowd between the stage and the two men parted, the length of their bodies now in full view.

Rhett’s eyes first traveled over the shoulders and back of the blond man; his body was wide and sturdy, and Rhett tipped his head as his gaze wandered down. He took a moment to appreciate the round shape under the man’s jacket before his attention shifted to the narrower frame of the man at his side. His shoulders were broad, neck narrow, dark hair slightly askew from the hat he’d just removed. The shape of his torso cut in toward a narrow waist and hips, his tightly buttoned uniform jacket showing off the pleasing shape. Rhett was drawn in entirely; everything else seemed to blur out of focus.

“Turn around,” he muttered under his breath, watching the man collect two ales from Gerald. Rhett’s breath hitched in his throat as the man turned and rested his back against the bar, granting Rhett’s wish. His fingers stuttered over the strings for just a moment before he regained his composure.

The distance between them could not obscure the obvious: his wandering eyes were light, blue and sparkling under the lights hanging over the bar top. He watched him speaking to the man next to him, his lips opening to the side, his smile lopsided. Everything about this mysterious stranger was wholly and fully entrancing. Rhett’s heart was thrumming in his chest, the sounds of the music were muted and dull, though he managed to play along.

Rhett’s eyes traveled hungrily over each detail of the man’s body, like a guided tour of everything that drove him crazy. This man was like a drug, one custom designed for him, every feature like it was hand-crafted from his imagination. Rhett groaned as his gaze drifted over a pronounced Adam’s apple, across the sharp line of a lightly stubbled jaw, up and over lips wrapped around a bottle of ale to the light blue eyes he’d noticed right away, eyes that were now locked on his.

To Rhett’s disappointment, the man’s mesmerizing eyes squinted closed, the reason became all too apparent when he ripped the bottle from his lips spraying a mist of ale into the air. Rhett’s eyes widened and a laugh forced its way out of his pursed lips. Even in his awkward attempt to clear away his mess, he was utterly captivating, his delicate hand wiping away the wetness around his mouth. “Who are you?” he whispered to himself, furrowing his brow. His heart leapt into his throat as the realization that their eyes hadn't met by chance, struck him. He was not the only one staring.

The song was coming to an end, and he plucked out the last few bars, focus never drifting from his new-found obsession. He stilled the last ringing note from his instrument with the palm of his hand and as the music faded into the corners of the room, the crowd erupted in applause. To Rhett, sound was muted, as though he were listening to it while floating on his back, ears underwater.

Rhett heard Teddy’s voice, but the words may well have been jibberish for all he knew. He was beginning to feel like his ogling would soon be noticed by every soul in the room. Though he wanted nothing more than to drown himself in arguably the most fascinating and beautiful human he’d ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on, he looked away. [He leaned his bass against his body, holding firmly to the neck as he lifted his hat and dabbed at the sweat on his brow with the back of his hand.](http://valvenaut.tumblr.com/post/149843057600/rhett-heard-teddys-voice-though-the-words-may)

Teddy turned and patted Rhett’s shoulder before hopping off the edge of the stage. He shook hands and smiled as he worked his way through the crowd. The others followed after him.

Will stepped down last. “You coming?” he asked, looking back at Rhett over his shoulder. 

“In a minute.” Rhett fiddled with the knobs of his bass. “This sounded a bit out of tune on that last one,” he lied.

Will smiled and nodded before his short frame disappeared, swallowed up entirely by the crowd.

Rhett’s lie had bought him time to compose himself. He wasn’t sure he could recall a time when he’d felt so flustered. He considered himself to be fairly even keeled, and even more so since he’d become more comfortable in his skin, with who he was. He’d felt attraction, experienced the pangs of lust and desire, but he’d never been so tempted before. His mind screamed at him, forcing images into his mind, he could almost feel how soft those perfect lips might feel on his, how the lean body under that uniform might look bathed in the soft glow of lamp lights. He ran his fingers over the smooth body of the bass, closing his eyes and imagining the feel of something softer, smoother, beneath his calloused pads.

He was almost angry at himself for allowing these thoughts to intrude on him in such a public setting, but his mind was gifting him with perfection, and for that he could be nothing short of grateful. He allowed himself a moment longer to linger on impure thoughts about a man he’d never even met before forcing them from his mind. “Get it together,” he muttered, chancing a sideways glance at the bar .

To his dismay, Teddy was shaking hands with the man Rhett had just imagined naked under his fingertips. “Shit.” Rhett’s mouth hung open. They’d come here because Teddy had invited them. “Just perfect,” Rhett scoffed. He’d been hoping for more time; perhaps he would feel more in control at the end of the night. But if Teddy was making introductions, it was only a matter of time before he would be called down from his dark corner and exposed.

Rhett adjusted the collar of his shirt, fiddled with the brim of his hat, all the while listening to the rush of blood in his ears. He ground his foot into the stage and clenched his fist, feeling the slickness in his palm building. This response was so uncharacteristic; his confidence and easy charm were the traits he relied on most to attract and seduce.

““Oy!” Teddy’s loud voice cut through the fog in his mind. “Get over ‘er, ya lanky git!”

He was out of time. He would have to fake it, or reveal himself as the swooning schoolgirl he felt like he’d become. He took a few deep breaths, which slowed the rhythm of his heart. He wiped his damp palms over the thighs of his trousers and nodded as he walked toward the edge of the stage. He could only see a hint of chestnut hair peeking out from behind Teddy’s shoulder as he nudged his way toward them, squeezing between intimate conversations and accepting congratulatory handshakes.

Rhett pushed through the last of the patrons separating him from Teddy and the others. He spotted Will easily, his short stature as easy to pick out in a crowd as his own ridiculous height. He settled himself between Will and a wide beam. He looked down at the floor, his eyes taking in first the man's boots and then trousers. His hanging hands were delicate but strong, his slender arms were decorated in badges and stitching. His face was just as perfect as it had seemed from across the room. Strong jaw, proud chin, curved nose and expressive brows. The man's eyes were cornflower blue, brilliant and deep, looking directly into his. Rhett could sense the nerves radiating off of him in waves, the flush in his cheeks, the clenching of his fists, the dilating of his pupils; The tension was palpable; Rhett was making him nervous, excited even.

Rhett’s mouth turned up into a grin as his eyes made another pass. He wasn’t listening to the conversation, his mind was occupied with what his eyes were drinking in. A nudge to his shoulder brought him back to reality.

“Well, aren’t you going to introduce yourself?” Teddy jeered, looking at him over Will’s head, flashing a quick wink.

Rhett watched the flustered man before him smooth his features, wipe his hand over his jacket and thrust it forward, having obviously grown impatient with Rhett’s continued silence.

“Lincoln.” The sound of his voice as he introduced himself was intoxicating.

Rhett’s eyebrow hitched at the unusual name. He also detected a subtle difference in his accent; he wasn’t just American, but southern. This southern gentleman was all but falling over himself and Rhett knew he was the cause. It bolstered his confidence; he wasn’t the only one infatuated. He pushed himself upright, taking a step away from the support beam, standing tall in front of the man who was probably not used to feeling so small. There was a heat in the air around him, like a tiny spark might set the whole room on fire. “Lincoln, huh,” he said, running his tongue over his teeth, feeling the points graze soft skin.

Lincoln’s lip quivered.

“I’m Rhett.” He took Lincoln’s hand in his, no longer concerned about its dampness, knowing it would be met with one just as clammy. What he hadn't anticipated was the tingling sensation that ran up the length of his arm as skin met skin. It felt as though their bodies were suddenly one, like the pounding of their hearts was synchronizing and falling in-step. This man was everything he’d ever dreamed of and more. Rhett felt in an instant like he’d found his match, this was something special, someone special. Lincoln. Rhett contemplated the name a moment longer. “But, I think I’ll call you Link.” Rhett flashed him a wink, knowing it wouldn’t be the last. Lincoln would be his… his Link.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this update! We're back where we began, Link's hand in Rhett's. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and if you liked it, consider giving that little kudos button some love ;) <3
> 
>  **Art for This Chapter:**  
>  By: Valvenaut  
> [Valerie and Teddy before the show](http://valvenaut.tumblr.com/post/149843055160/valerie-tilted-her-lips-toward-his-cheek-and)  
> [Rhett on stage](http://valvenaut.tumblr.com/post/149843057600/rhett-heard-teddys-voice-though-the-words-may)


	6. Captivated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Recommended Listening:**   
>  [All We Do - Oh Wonder](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F30G87zlRPw)   
>  [Be Yourself - Harrison Storm](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sneWn-_nsWM)   
>  [Slipping Away - Switchfoot](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E0SiqwECk9s)

**_August 30, 1940: Tadcaster, Yorkshire, UK._**

The sky was blue over Tadcaster for the first time in nearly a week. Soft clouds drifted over the sun from time to time, casting dancing shadows across stone buildings and green leaves. Summer was never synonymous with sunshine in the northern reaches of England, even in August. The rain had fallen steadily, pattering against the roof over Rhett’s attic flat every night since the show at The Hart and Thistle.

Rhett had blamed his inability to sleep, and the bags under his eyes, on the pattering rain hitting slate shingles and the slow drip of water into a pot on his kitchen floor from a leak in the ceiling. But he actually found those sounds to be quite comforting and rather soothing. No, what had been keeping him up were the images in his mind, images of Link.

Rhett kicked at the gravel under his foot as he settled himself on the stone wall outside of Samuel Smith’s Brewery, where he worked between gigs. The owner was also his landlord and the two had worked out an arrangement: Rhett worked off his rent pulling long hours loading trucks and washing bottles when he wasn’t on the road with the band.

Rhett sat his paper-bagged lunch on the stone next to him and looked up at the drifting clouds. He rubbed his hands over the thighs of his dirty trousers, the stains of a day’s work rubbed into the material. He closed his eyes and soaked in the warm rays of the sun, thoughts drifting as they had the previous night. He smirked at the images of Link’s curled grin and soft eyes, the sound of his jovial laughter.

“Still day dreaming, are we?”

Rhett’s chin dropped as his eyes opened. Teddy was shuffling toward him, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. Rhett was unsurprised by his disheveled appearance. The untucked, wrinkled shirt and messy hair were a common sight. Rhett shook his head. “Where’d you sleep last night?” Rhett teased, snatching his lunch bag and pulling out his waxed paper-wrapped sandwich. “Because it sure wasn’t in my arm chair.”

Teddy approached the wall and leaned his back against it, placing his palms on the wall and hopping up to sit next to Rhett. “Well, I wasn’t sure I could stand another night of your tossing and turning.” He nudged Rhett playfully.

Rhett unwrapped his sandwich and took a large bite. “Well,” he mumbled around the mouthful. “I’m sorry that the _free_ accommodations aren’t good enough for you.” Rhett smirked, his cheeks bulging with unchewed bread.

Teddy laughed, swaying in place, looking down at his swinging feet.

Rhett followed Teddy’s gaze, unable to keep a smile from creeping across his face at the sight of Teddy’s swinging feet. His own were firmly planted on the ground. Rhett’s attention drifted from Teddy’s dangling legs to a red stain adorning the collar of his shirt. “So, which of the three lasses you were entertaining last night is responsible for that?” Rhett gestured at the stain.

Teddy thumbed at collar of his shirt, craning his neck to see the offending mark. He pulled the fabric around, revealing a second stain, lighter in colour. “Who said it had to be just one?” he winked.

Rhett rolled his eyes. “You are such an arse,” he chortled before taking another bite of his lunch.

Teddy laughed, rocking from side to side, tucking his hands under his thighs. “Since we’re on the subject, that Lincoln–”

“Link,” Rhett corrected.

Teddy eyes brightened as the corner of his lip curled up into a smirk. “Link, then,” Teddy conceded. “You two seemed pretty cozy the other night.” He glanced sideways at Rhett through the hanging strands of his hair.

Rhett closed his eyes, feeling his brow furrow. This topic of conversation was one he’d been hoping to avoid. Teddy had a tendency to pry, rarely settling for Rhett’s typical two word responses to his inquiries. Besides, Rhett wasn’t overly enthused by the idea of admitting his own follies.

Teddy ignored Rhett’s obvious trepidation and continued on. “I mean, I don’t know what happened after I left, but it looked promising.” His tone was teasing and suggestive.

Rhett’s mind wandered, and the images he’d been trying keep out came crashing through the levee he’d constructed to contain the distracting thoughts, suddenly flooding his mind, swallowing him up.

~~~ * ~~~

“So.. you’re an American?” Rhett squinted his eyes, pursing his lips. As soon as the words slipped from his lips, he wished he could pull the back. Of course he was American. Rhett was annoyed at his inability to find the charming words that normally came easily.

Link smiled around the mouth of his ale, sputtering just a bit. “Yes,” he laughed as he took a small swig. He swallowed it down, licking the last of the hoppy liquid from his lips.

Rhett was relieved that his silly question hadn’t been met with derision. Link seemed amused. Rhett contemplated his next question, in an attempt to avoid further embarrassment. “I hear a little something different in that accent of yours,” he said, trying to sound aloof.

Link’s slender fingers peeled away thin strips of the label on his bottle. “You mean my charming southern drawl?” Link looked up at Rhett, his lip quivering just a touch, making his cheeky grin a little unsteady.

Although Rhett was certain of what he sensed between them, he couldn’t help but take advantage of the opportunity to be sure. “That must play well with the lasses around here,” he teased as his heartbeat quickened. His palms began to sweat. Maybe he’d been wrong, distracted by his own attraction, projecting those feelings onto Link. But his uncertainty was short-lived. Link’s nervous smile and hesitant response snuffed out any lingering doubt.

“Uh…” Link stumbled. “It… It uh... does seem to draw attention.” His cheeks flushed and he looked down at his shoes.

Rhett thumbed his beard as his cheeks balled up. “The uniform, no doubt, helps.” Rhett reached out, and before he could stop himself he was touching Link’s shoulder, rolling the wool jacket between his fingers; he felt Link’s body tense under his touch. He turned the gentle caress into a playful pat before pulling his hand away.

Link’s Adam’s apple bobbed up his slender neck as he adjusted the cuff of his jacket, clearing his throat. “My friend there,” he tipped his chin to Garrett who was laughing alongside Teddy, the two surrounded by a swarm of giggling women, “really takes advantage of the uniform.” He took another swallow of his drink, finishing the bottle. He shook it, listening to the dregs slosh from side to side.

Rhett held out his hand. “You want another?” he asked politely.

“Yeah.” Link leaned over, looking around Rhett’s shoulder at the bar. “But I’ll get it.”

Rhett tried to step out of the way, but instead moved into Link’s path, bumping into him. “Sorry,” he apologized as his attempt to move aside was once again mirrored.

A small chuckle snuck out of Link’s smiling mouth, the flush in his cheeks spreading down his neck as he dropped his gaze to the floor once again.

That pink hue in Link’s skin, that catching breath in his laugh, it was Rhett’s undoing. He felt his skin buzzing under his clothes, each hair standing on end. He was desperate for a moment’s reprieve, fighting the urge to shove the perfect specimen in front of him into the wall and take what he wanted right there, in front of everyone. He reached out, taking Link’s shoulders in his hands. “There,” he said proudly as he swapped their positions, practically lifting Link from the floor.

Link stumbled as he regained his footing. “Uh, thanks,” he muttered, straightening his ruffled jacket, tugging it into place.

Rhett stared hungrily at his back as he walked to the bar, yes meandering over every inch he could see, lingering for far too long on his round bottom as he leaned over the bar.

“Rhett?” Link called.

Rhett finally registered what was likely not Link’s first attempt to get his attention. “Hmm?” He looked up to see Link staring back at him over his shoulder.

“I asked if you wanted one.” Link wagged the bottle in his hand, eyes creased from his smile.

“No… no I’m fine, thanks.” Rhett nodded in appreciation for the offer. He wasn’t interested in the ale, more in the one holding it. Rhett looked around the room at all of the smiling faces, tipsy and joyous. All of them escaping the reality that existed just outside of the tavern doors, finding comfort in others, in the soft touches and stolen kisses. Didn’t he deserve the same? He adjusted his cap, drew in a deep breath and walked to the bar, standing just behind Link as he turned around.

“Unff,” Link gasped as he ran square into Rhett’s towering frame, spilling ale down the front of Rhett’s shirt.

Rhett looked down at the wet stain, smiling as it soaked through, cooling his warm skin.

Link set the bottle down on the bar behind him and began to pat at the spill with his hands. “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry… I–”

Rhett grabbed Link’s wrist, stilling his frantic, shaking hand. “It’s fine.” He dipped his head, searching for Link’s eyes, grinning when he found them. “Really,” he reassured, raising his eyebrows.

Link smiled back before looking down at their hands.

Rhett could feel the hammering of Link’s pulse through the thin skin of his wrist, and Rhett’s heart began to thrum in-time. The air between them was heavily laden with a tension Rhett could almost taste. “Do you… uh… want to get some air?” Rhett asked, loosening his grip.

Link’s wrist slipped free and he adjusted his tie. He looked up, his eyes wide. He parted his lips as if to speak, but nodded instead.

Rhett’s cheeks balled up and he tipped his head in the direction of the front door. “Follow me.” He made his way through the crowd easily, his imposing size creating a gap for Link to slip through. Rhett could feel Link’s hand on his back as they pushed through the last of the patrons.

They spilled out the door into the cool dark Yorkshire street, Rhett chuckling as he watched Link remove his hat, holding it by the brim as he tucked a few errant hairs back in place. Rhett turned the corner and leaned against the wall in the short alleyway between the pub and an adjacent building.

Link followed him, leaning against the opposite wall. “How long have you been playing?” Link asked, hooking his hat over the wooden gate post next to him.

“A while.” Rhett reached into his pocket and pulled out a tin of cigarettes, popping open the lid and plucking out a slender smoke. He held it between his lips and tucked away the tin, now palming his pockets in search of a lighter.

“Here.” Link pushed himself from the wall, pulling a steel lighter from his jacket pocket. He flipped open the cover and ground the thumbwheel. The flint sparked, and an orange flame lit their faces as Link held the lighter to the end of Rhett’s cigarette.

Rhett cupped his hands around the delicate flame, his hands covering Link’s. He drew in until the cigarette’s end began to glow and smoke. Link’s eyes were gleaming in the light of the flame, the shadow of his brow unable to hide their striking colour.

Link snapped the lid of the lighter closed, sending the alley into near darkness once again.

Rhett exhaled, filling the air with wisps of grey. The faint glow from the embers of his cigarette were enough to reveal only a silhouette in front of him. He felt himself take an unconscious step closer. Link remained still, not backing away. Rhett could feel the warmth of his rapid breathing.

Link’s shaky voice stammered out a weak protest. “Rhett, I think… I think we should–”

Rhett leaned in, placing his hand on Link’s shoulder. He couldn’t help himself; he was never so forward, not this quickly, and not so publicly. He felt out of control. There was something about Link that was utterly intoxicating to him. It was more than lust, it was a hunger, an insatiable need to know him, to taste him, to have him.

Link recoiled from the touch.

Rhett backed away. He’d pushed too far, asked too much. He owed this man more than a cheap, stolen kiss. “I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have.” He hung his head.

“No, I...” Link stepped out from the shadows into the dimly lit street. “It’s just... ” he looked down at his wrist at a watch he wasn’t wearing. “It’s late… I should go.” He stumbled over his feet and disappeared around the corner.

“Wait!” Rhett called to him, throwing his cigarette to the ground and stepping out the ember, and following Link. He skidded to a halt on the sidewalk, watching as Link disappear into the darkness. “Don’t go,” he muttered under his breath.

The door of the pub swung open and two drunken men piled out into the street laughing, sharing playful jabs and slaps on the back.

Rhett stepped back into the alley, out of the way of the swinging door. He stumbled over a raised stone and fell backward into the gate, his hand clutching at stiff fabric instead of the wood post he expected to find. Link’s forgotten hat.

~~~ * ~~~

“I thought things were going well.” Rhett stuffed the empty waxed paper from his sandwich into his pocket. “Until he left me standing alone in the street.” He jumped down from the wall, running his hand through his hair and scratching at the back of his head.

Teddy smirked and swung his legs up onto the wall, lying on his back, knees bent, with his hands behind his head. “Maybe he’s just playing hard to get.” He crossed one leg over the other, wagging his foot.

“Yeah.” Rhett shoved Teddy’s swinging leg.It had been five days and he was beginning to wonder if the was remembering things as though viewing them through rose-coloured glasses. “Or he’s just not interested.”

“Ha!” Teddy laughed, shifting his weight. “That lad was falling all over himself.” He settled a forearm over his eyes, shielding them from the sun.

Rhett sighed. Teddy’s corroboration should have been of some comfort, but instead Rhett feared that it might be the only moment they would share, that he had gotten a taste of what he’d been sure he would never find, only to have it torn away. Rhett was pulled from his runaway thoughts by the sound of Teddy’s soft snores.

Rhett rolled his eyes and lifted Teddy’s dangling arm. “Ahem,” he cleared his throat.

Teddy’s groggy eyes drifted open.

“We have a show tonight,” Rhett reminded him, though he was sure Teddy hadn’t forgotten. “It would be nice if you at least _tried_ to look presentable.” Rhett let Teddy’s arm flop back down onto his face.

Teddy huffed out a heavy breath and groaned as he sat up. His eyes traveled over Rhett as he jumped down. “I’d be more concerned about myself, if I were you.” Teddy stepped past Rhett, walking backward in the direction of the pub. “You’ve more dirt on you than hog at the trough,” he winked.

Rhett shook his head. “Get on with ya!” Rhett tossed the ball of waxed paper in Teddy’s direction as he leaned back against the rock wall. He looked down into his blackened hands and couldn’t help but agree with Teddy’s less than tactful description. He groaned as he gathered up his trash and headed back to work.

  


**_August 30, 1940: RAF Church Fenton, Yorkshire, UK._**

It was 2:00 am and Lincoln stared up at the ceiling over his bed, Garrett’s soft snores drifting from the bunk below. He’d been lying still for what felt like an eternity, just as he had every night since meeting Rhett.

He sighed out a huff of air, blowing the errant hairs from his forehead, crossing his arms over his eyes. But nothing he did could clear his mind, could help him sleep. Behind his closed lids he was tortured by images of a smiling stranger, of Rhett. In fact, Rhett seemed to be everywhere.

His mind had been wandering off on him all week. Garrett had grown concerned with his lack of concentration. It was unusual for Lincoln to stumble, to fail to provide an answer when asked. He’d embarrassed himself in front of his commanding officer. The others hadn’t let him forget, teasing him every night since as they prepared to bunk down.

What they didn’t know was that each and every conscious thought was focused not on his duties, not on their drills, but on the fluttering feelings in his gut and the distracting images in his mind. He saw Rhett everywhere; his smiling face peered out from crowds where he wasn’t present, painted itself across the ceiling above him when he tried to find sleep, and when he did, he slipped into tormentingly perfect dreams, all of them scored with the distant moans of a smoothly played bass.

The smell of cigarette smoke had become synonymous with the intoxicating man. Lincoln hadn’t touched one since that night. How had he lost himself so completely? For so long he’d been able to repress the fire that was always threatening to burn out of control inside of him, to force himself to be what his world demanded. But Rhett… Rhett was a new kind of temptation, a terrifying revelation that the control he thought he had over his life was merely an illusion. He tried not to allow his thoughts to dwell on the images of Julie’s sweet smile that were fading in his memory, eclipsed by the warmth and clarity of Rhett’s soft expression and mesmerizing eyes.

He pulled his thin pillow out from behind his head and covered his face with it, letting out a discontented groan. This was the last thing he expected when he’d crossed the Atlantic destined for a war. He expected to be confronted with difficult times, trials, and conflict. But he expected to be met with those on the field of battle, not within his own mind.

Though he felt himself being torn apart, the fabric of his reality threatening to completely unravel, he couldn’t help but smile as he recalled the night he’d run through the streets of Tadcaster, run from his feelings, run from Rhett.

~~~ * ~~~

The flickering light of Lincoln’s lighter’s flame lit Rhett’s smooth features in a warm burnt-orange glow. The brim of Rhett’s hat concealed his eyes from view, a shame because they were a perplexing colour that Lincoln was determined to put a name to.

The tip of the cigarette lit and Lincoln snapped the lighter closed. In the darkness, being this close to Rhett felt sinful, but he couldn’t back away. The faint halo of light from the cherry of Rhett’s cigarette lit his round cheeks, the blond-red hairs of his beard picked up hints of ebbing light.

As the haze of exhaled smoke filled the air, Lincoln’s heart stuttered in his chest. Rhett had moved closer. Lincoln’s lungs felt tight in his chest, his breath was rapid and shallow. “Rhett, I think… I think we should–”

Rhett leaned closer and Lincoln’s ability to speak escaped him. It would be so easy to give in. Rhett had given him permission, they way he’d looked at him, the way he’d touched him. It would be as easy as breathing to just close the last remaining inches between them and give into the desires he’d so long denied.

Rhett’s hand cupped his shoulder and Lincoln immediately recoiled. He’d allowed this to go too far. As much as his body yearned for the touch he’d just denied, he couldn’t give in. The life he’d carefully constructed was being threatened in the darkness, teetering on a foundation as weak as a blade of grass.

Rhett took a step away, mirroring Lincoln. “I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have.”

Lincoln’s heart ached. There was little else in the world he could want for in that moment than the man who now hung his head, ashamed of something he need not be. “No, I…” Lincoln stammered as he walked backward out of the alley. He should have stopped this sooner, not allowed himself to taste this dream. “It’s just…” He looked down at his wrist, only to conceal the tears building in the corners of his eyes. This was not a life he could have and now he’d dragged someone else into his mess. “It’s late… I should go.”

He looked down at his feet, feet that were carrying him away from the first person in his life he was sure he was meant to know. He could hear Rhett calling for him and it stabbed at his resolve. He fought the part of him that was ready and willing to turn around, to connect, to feel. But he urged himself forward. He wasn’t even sure he was going in the right direction, only that he was putting distance between himself and his temptation.

~~~ * ~~~

Lincoln leaned over his bunk, looking down at Garrett. He was sleeping peacefully, mouth hanging open, hair splayed out across his pillow. Lincoln envied him; his life would never offer him the same simplicity. Garrett made everything look easy, and he was one of the kindest people Lincoln had ever met.

When Garrett walked into the barracks that night, seeing Lincoln dirty and disheveled, sitting on his bunk. He plunked down at his side without a second thought, draping his arm around Lincoln’s slumped shoulders. He’d comforted him, asked him to share, but never pressed. Lincoln refused to burden his closest friends with a secret that was his to own. He’d also be lying if he said the thought of losing that friendship didn’t terrify him. Garrett was a kind soul, but that didn’t mean he would accept what he himself couldn’t embrace. No, he would bear the weight of this alone, no matter how trying it might become, before risking Garrett.

Lincoln watched Garrett a moment longer before falling back onto his mattress. His mind was racing but his eyes were heavy, pleading with him to let them fall closed. Though he knew what awaited him behind closed lids, he could no longer deprive his body of rest. The dreams would come, as they had each night, dreams that both teased and tormented him. Soft moments full of Rhett’s smiling face, wandering hands and soft skin, suddenly blanketed in a smoky haze, the sound of sobbing, Julie’s face wet with tears, his father’s narrowed eyes, the ominous feeling of being crushed under an immeasurable weight.

Lincoln felt himself drifting into the pleasant warmth of his dream’s opening scene, weightless as sleep embraced him.

~~~ * ~~~

“Planning on sleeping away your entire day’s leave?” Garrett’s booming voice pulled Lincoln from the last wisps of sleep.

Lincoln looked at the large clock on the wall across the room. Noon? Link blinked his eyes, wiping the sleep from them. He couldn’t have slept until noon. He’d not gotten more than an hours sleep at one time in nearly a week. He’d not been startled awake by his dreams. He recalled only sweetness and light, faint images slowly fading, replaced by the sterile colours of the barracks. He instinctively reached for his glasses, but he caught himself. He didn’t wear glasses, not as far as the RAF was concerned.

When he and Garrett had crossed the border into Canada, when they’d sat side by side in the Ottawa recruitment office, Lincoln had come to terms with the fact that he would never pilot a plane; his vision would disqualify him, only just. But Garrett had convinced him to try, knowing it was Lincoln’s dream to soar above the clouds.

The attending officer called Garrett’s name first, Evans before Neal, naturally. Lincoln had stared forlornly at the wall covered in recruitment posters. All of them depicted life as a pilot; the view from between the wings of a plane, the wind billowing in the scarf of a flight officer, the smiling faces of a squadron of pilots, preparing for a mission, each image more heart wrenching than the last.

The sounds of chatter and chuckling carried through the curtained wall between Lincoln and and the exam room distracted him, his quivering knee coming to rest. Lincoln had gotten up from his chair just as Garrett pushed aside the curtain, grinning from ear to ear. The officer read off Lincoln’s name from the clipboard he held.

Garrett had taken his hand, shaking it firmly, wished him luck and took a seat.

Lincoln could still remember the exact feel of the paper Garrett had slipped into his hand, how it scraped at his palm. He remembered the messy shape of the hurriedly scrawled letters, the letters of the eye chart. He remembered the sly wink Garrett shot him before he passed through the curtain and he would always remember, that in handing him that tiny slip of paper, Garrett had handed him his dreams.

“You should know…” Garrett ripped Lincoln’s blanket from his bunk. “You were talking in your sleep,” he teased.

“Hey!” Lincoln protested, sliding his hands down over his body, feeling what he was worried he might. He covered himself with crossed arms before coming to the sudden realization that Garrett may have heard more than he bargained for. The beautiful details of Lincoln’s dream rushed over him like tidal wave.

Rhett’s wide smile, hand in hand, warm North Carolina sand under foot, soft lips on his, laughter and love. His body touched in ways he’d never experienced, touched by Rhett’s hands, kissed by Rhett’s mouth, held tightly in a loving embrace.

Garrett chuckled at Lincoln’s attempt at modesty. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard your late night mutterings.” He rolled the blanket over his arm and tossed it at Lincoln’s head. “I forgot what a storyteller you were.” Garrett plunked down on his bunk and began slipping on his shoes.

Lincoln was afraid of what Garrett’s answer might be, but he had to know. “What did I say?” he asked tentatively, leaning down over his bunk.

Garrett looked up at him, smiling at he tied the final knot in his laces. “Oh, there weren’t really words last night.” He got up placing his hands on the edge of Link’s bunk. “But it was rather obvious that it was a _pleasant_ dream.” He gripped the bed rail, leaning back on his heels and raising his eyebrows, bugging his eyes.

“Ugh!” Lincoln rolled over onto his stomach and buried his face in his pillow. He was relieved to know he hadn’t moaned out an admission in his sleep, but he could still feel his cheeks warming from the embarrassment.

Garrett threw his head back, filling the room with a hearty belly laugh.

“And what’s so funny in here?” Their flight commander, Tim, entered and they instinctively took their positions at the end of their bunk. Lincoln wearing only his white cotton boxers.

Garrett looked sideways at Lincoln, holding in a laugh.

Lincoln jabbed him with his elbow, tugging at the fabric of his underwear in an attempt to conceal what he could.

“Oh, come now!” Tim waved his hand at them dismissively. “It’s leave day… none of this lining up by your bunk nonsense.” He patted Garrett on the shoulder. “But a few more layers of clothing wouldn’t go amiss, Neal,” he teased.

The air in the barracks was cooling as fall approached and that fact was not lost on Lincoln. His feet soaked in the coldness from the concrete floor and the chilly air pimpled his skin in goosebumps. He bent down and opened the lid of the trunk he shared with Garrett, pulling out a white cotton t-shirt. He pulled it on over his head, further tousling his already messy hair.

“Tim said he was planning on taking us to the theater in Leeds tonight,” Garrett chimed. 

“Yes,” Tim said. “The Lads have another gig in Tadcaster, but I thought I might show you boys a little something different tonight.”

Mention of the pub, and similarly Rhett, had Lincoln’s head spinning. He cleared his throat and swallowed hard.

“Are you coming?” Garrett looked at Lincoln as though he already knew the answer. They did everything together, so his question was more a conversational formality.

Lincoln watched Garrett’s brow furrow when he didn’t immediately respond with an exuberant “yes”. But he finally felt like he was thinking clearly for the first time in days. He’d rested, his dreams had been comforting, and the way ahead seemed obvious. He had to confront his feelings, running away had only compounded his problems. He had to see Rhett, to speak with him, to explain himself, to apologize.

“Well?” Garrett asked again.

Unwilling to risk Garrett offering to stay behind and go with him to the pub, Lincoln rubbed at his temples, wincing. “You know,” he said, squinting his eyes, drawing air through his clenched teeth, “I think I must have slept funny, my head is pounding.” He sat down on Garrett’s bunk, resting his elbows on his knees and holding head in his hands.

Garrett placed his hand on Link’s shoulder. “Do you need me to–” 

“No, no,” Lincoln interrupted. “Y’all should go.” He ran his hands through his hair and let out a deep sigh. “I’ll be fine.” He looked up at Garrett, but couldn’t hold his gaze long. He hated lying to his friend, but it was easier this way.

“As long as you’re sure.” Garrett squeezed Lincoln’s shoulder.

Lincoln covered Garrett’s hand with his, patting it. “I’m sure.” There was somewhere he needed to be, and it wasn’t a theater in Leeds.

When the others had gathered their things and said their goodbyes, Lincoln listened for the sound of closing doors and a revving engine before climbing out of his bunk, pulling on the first pair of trousers he could find and snatching his glasses from their hiding place behind his mattress. He was going to see Rhett. 

~~~ * ~~~

A few drinks and shared laughter, that’s how they always prepared for a show. It was like a ritual, but Rhett couldn’t bring a laugh to his lips. He simply smiled at the others, trying to disguise his dejection.

The taste of the ale on his tongue only seemed to intensify the feelings he’d been trying to ignore. It was how he’d imagined Link might have tasted that night with ale still drying on his perfect lips, robust and earthy, balanced and pure.

It was hard to pretend like nothing had changed when his world had been turned on its head. He would never have described his life as simple, but it seemed so by comparison. He’d met many people in his life, been intimate with several, but no one had ever affected him like this. It was frightening to be completely at the mercy of another person, but Link had bewitched him.

Rhett sat slumped in his chair, looking across the room toward the bar. Teddy was leaning across it, smiling at Valerie. He couldn’t hear their conversation, but he could see Teddy’s enthusiastic expression and Valerie’s rolling eyes, though there was a flush to the skin of her neck as she tucked her hair behind her ear. Rhett smiled, an amused rumble sounding in the back of his throat.

He tilted his head, furrowing his brow. Teddy had always been determined, annoyingly so, and Rhett had been sure that Valerie was unattainable, even for his tenacious best friend. But Teddy had not let that stop him.

Rhett looked up at the beams running the length of the high ceiling; the last of the day’s light shone through the small window in the peak of the roof, glinting off small floating specks of dust.

Expecting the world to hand him what he desired, for life to be easy: that was not Rhett’s experience or belief. If his life had taught him anything, it was that happiness is often the result of choice, not happenstance. He’d been waiting, waiting for happenstance, when perhaps the answer all along was choice. How had he allowed himself to forget what he’d taken so long to learn in the first place?

Rhett had to find Link, he needed to see him, even if meant having a door slammed in his face, or listening to that perfect voice scream at him to leave. He had to try. He needed to try. He got up from his chair and headed for the exit without a second thought. He grabbed the handle and, as he was about to open the door, Teddy’s hand was on his shoulder.

“If you’re going where I think you are, we go on in two hours,” Teddy spoke softly in his ear, slapping Rhett’s shoulder. He gave a gentle squeeze of his fingers before heading back to the bar. “Don’t ya be late,” he called over his shoulder with a wink.

Rhett wasn’t even sure he could get to the RAF base at Church Fenton and back in two hours, but he was bound and determined to try. With a newfound resolve, Rhett pulled open the heavy door, and stopped suddenly, his heart racing. His eyes widened as his stomach flipped. 

“Hi, Rhett.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late as crap update!
> 
> I hope y'all enjoyed this one! Looking forward to hearing your thoughts! Comments and Kudos are ficwriter lifeblood :)  
> RTR <3
> 
>  **Art for This Chapter:**  
>  By: Valvenaut  
> [Hand Moments](valvenaut.tumblr.com/post/150861344525/remembertherandler-two-fronts-chapter-6)  
> 


	7. Coming Undone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Recommended Listening:**   
>  [Your Love Is An Island - Talos](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FtuzE9O96Jw)   
>  [Bare - WILDES](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NLeDhKnZSYw)   
>  [All You Need - Reddening West](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UpE2R3HB6TU)

**_August 30, 1940: Tadcaster, Yorkshire, UK._**

“Hi, Rhett.” Lincoln pulled his lips into a small smile. He could feel the skin of his face and neck warming and knew that it was surely reflected in the colour.

Rhett’s mouth hung slightly agape as his eyes traveled the length of Lincoln’s body, the sensation of wandering, and seemingly hungry eyes, sent a shiver down Lincoln’s spine and moistened the skin under his tight white t-shirt. He’d crammed his hands into the pockets to hide their shaking. He tilted his head at Rhett’s look of bewilderment and smirked knowing his arrival had Rhett reeling. “You know… some might say it’s rude to not return a greeting,” he teased.

Rhett gave his head a quick shake and refocused his eyes. “Hi.” He blocked the doorway, his long limbs frozen, hands gripping either side of the doorframe. His brows furrowed as his eyes began roaming once again.

Lincoln pulled his hand from his pocket and dragged his thumb and forefinger over his lightly stubbled chin. His heart hammered in his chest and he only hoped that Rhett couldn’t hear it. “You know, I don’t always wear a uniform… right?” he said as smoothly as he could manage, trying to maintain _some_ some semblance of composure, especially after making a fool of himself and running off like a startled cat when he’d been in such close proximity to Rhett last. He nudged his glasses with a curled index finger.

Rhett huffed out a small appreciative laugh. “You just… you look… the glasses–”

“Aren’t you going to let the poor lad in?” Teddy called from his stool at the bar.

Rhett bit down on his lip and stepped back from the door. “Sorry, I uh…” he stammered, adjusting the collar of his shirt.

Lincoln couldn’t keep the corner of his lip in line and it curled up into a smirk. He’d spent the entire trip to Tadcaster worried he’d imagined everything, that the Rhett he’d remembered was just a combination of one too many ales and an active imagination. “It’s alright.” Lincoln passed through the doorway into the dimly lit pub. “I know my coming here is probably a bit unexpected.” Lincoln cleared his throat, widening his eyes as they adjusted to the change in lighting.

“Perhaps a bit.” Rhett scratched at the hairs along his jawline.

“Oh…” Lincoln’s gaze shifted to the floor. “I could go if I’m out of li–”

“No!” Rhett’s full-bodied voice filled the pub, the force of it quieting other conversations.

Teddy snickered quietly at the bar, sipping at his drink.

Rhett smoothed the sleeve of his shirt. “No, you should stay.” His features softened as his eyebrows lifted, widening his eyes, giving Link a peek at the confounding colour that had tinted the backdrops of his dreams.

The sound of Teddy’s bar stool sliding across the floor preceded his jovial invitation. “Yes! Stay!” He jogged to Lincoln and slapped his shoulder. “You came all this way and Rhett ‘ere was just comin’ to find ya,” he said in a lowered voice.

Linonln looked sideways at Teddy and back to Rhett in time to see Rhett flash his friend an annoyed glare.

Lincoln narrowed his eyes, which knitted his brows. Teddy’s knowing tone had him feeling on edge. Rhett had clearly shared details of their evening with his friend. How much did he know? What had Rhett told him?

“Thanks, Teddy,” Rhett sneered through pursed his lips, gritting his teeth.

“What are friends for, eh?” Teddy gave Lincoln’s shoulder another firm slap and headed back to his seat at the bar where Valerie stood folding aprons.

Had Rhett told Teddy what had happened? Panic began to set in. He wasn’t even sure how to explain or reconcile the feelings he was having, and he certainly wasn’t prepared to be exposed. Lincoln’s eyes darted between knots in the wide-planked floor. If Rhett had told Teddy, who else might know what he was?

“Are… are you okay?” Rhett reached out for him, but Lincoln stepped back and turned away.

It seemed as though every pair of eyes in the room were on him, all of them seeing right through his carefully constructed facade. Lincoln could hear each beat of his heart thudding in his ears. He is Charles Lincoln Neal III. He isn’t allowed to be here. He isn’t allowed to feel this way. He ran his hand through the top of his hair, squinting his eyes. The voice in his head sniped at him, its bellowing disapproval and disgust rattling his skull, the pain of it all amplified by the realization that the hateful voice was his own.

Lincoln wanted to run, better yet, disappear entirely. Coming here had been a mistake. What had he hoped he might find? He despised himself for his cowardice, but nothing had changed. He’d tricked himself into believing that one night free of tormenting dreams meant that he wouldn’t be faced with harsh reality in the waking hours.

Lincoln’s trembling fingers caught in his hair, and the sound of his shallow breathing seemed to be the only sound in the room. He could feel the same nervous energy surging through his veins as he had that night in the alley. 

Lincoln parted his lips to apologize, to turn and look into disapointed eyes before walking out the door, leaving Rhett standing alone again. “Rhett… I–” A firm hand on his shoulder trapped his words in his throat.

Rhett leaned closer. “Please…” he pleaded under his breath. “Stay.”

The nagging internal voice fell silent, doubt melting away with it. One touch, and the reasons to leave, to run, were inconsequential. Lincoln was just where he needed to be.

~~~ * ~~~

The evening had passed in a flurry of laughter, drinks, and good music. Lincoln sat at the bar watching Rhett play and it was as if the sound of his bass cut through the din. Lincoln was able to pick out each plucked note as though it were being played just for his ears.

He tried to keep his eyes from lingering too long for fear that he’d never be able look away, but it was a nearly impossible feat. Rhett was completely mesmerizing. His soft smile and rounded cheeks were accentuated by his somewhat scraggly beard, slightly more unkempt than when they had last met. He stood at the rear of the stage, but it was as though he were front and center.

“Is there anything I can get you?” Valerie rested her hand on his shoulder, speaking into his ear to be heard over the music and lively crowd.

“No... thank you,” Lincoln answered, his focus still entirely consumed. Lincoln smiled as Rhett looked up from the strings meeting his gaze. “I’ve got all I need.”

Lincoln sat perched on his stool, watching Rhett and the others play out their set. Several offers to dance were politely refused, a few more pints swallowed down as the evening passed.

The intermission had passed in what seemed like an instant. Lincoln only managed to slip in a few words between congratulations and pats on the back exchanged between Rhett and the bar’s patrons, but he didn’t mind. He enjoyed watching Rhett in his element, seeing how well-loved he was by his friends, how respected he was a musician. He was more intriguing by the minute.

As the show came to a close and the crowd in front of the stage began to thin, Lincoln got up from his stool and rested his elbow on the bartop. He watched Rhett and the others packing away the tools of their trade.

Rhett leaned his bass against the back wall and hopped down off the stage. He crossed the floor quickly, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt. “Sorry I’ve been rather occupied all night,” Rhett apologized, brushing back the hair from his forehead.

Lincoln smiled up at him, drinking down the last of his ale. “I found ways to entertain myself,” he teased shaking the empty bottle. The alcohol had taken the edge off of Lincoln’s nerves and he felt a little more confident in his charm.

Rhett laughed, taking the bottle from Lincoln’s hand. He thumbed at the torn label, tattered and picked. “Do you… want to–”

“Get some air?” Lincoln chuckled as he repeated the line Rhett had used to lure him into the alley.

The colour of Rhett’s already flushed and sweat-dampened face deepened as he nodded. Lincoln was glad to see that he wasn’t the only one blushing.

“Sure.” Lincoln began moving toward the front door, assuming he’d soon be finding himself standing in the same alley, and fearing the same outcome, when Rhett’s hand closed around his arm and he froze in place. His palms began to sweat, his pulse growing erratic.

The others had gathered around the bar behind them, laughing and clinking together the last glasses of the evening.

Lincoln felt a tug on his arm, a gentle encouragement to turn as Rhett leaned closer. Lincoln felt the warmth of Rhett’s slow breathing on the back of his neck.

“Follow me.” Rhett released his grip.

Lincoln turned to see Rhett walking toward the narrow hallway next to the stage. He looked over at Rhett’s gathered friends, they were entirely consumed by drink and chatter. They paid him no attention, and he was glad of it. He took a few tentative steps forward, the hallway Rhett stood next to coming into focus.

He craned his neck and, at the end of the short hallway, the light of the moon crept in through a propped open door. He looked up over the frames of his glasses to see Rhett nod his head in the direction of the door and beckon him with a curled finger.

Lincoln knew that the cessation of a heart preceded death by only moments, so his must still be beating, but it had the very least skipped one, perhaps two. He cleared his throat, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.

Rhett grinned and ducked his head under the low doorway, then walked to the end of the hall and pushed open the door.

The cool air rushed in, flowing down the hall and spilling over Lincoln’s flushed skin. He didn’t remember making the decision to walk, but before he knew it his feet had carried him to the threshold, and the view that awaited him could have been no nearer to perfect.

Rhett stood facing away, his chin tipped to the sky, the smoke of his cigarette drifting up into the light of the full moon which gleamed across the tops of his shoulders. His long shadow crept up the wall next to the doorway.

Link stepped clear of the door as the sounds of cheerful laughter faded to a whisper behind it. The back lot was intimate and private. Moonlight reflected back from low stone walls that surrounded the space, contrasting with the dark shadows they cast over the ground, making it seem as though they were floating in the night sky, nothing underfoot.

“I thought you might like to see the stars.” Rhett spoke slowly in a hushed tone, rolling his neck and breathing out a melodic sigh.

Lincoln hadn’t noticed the stars, nor the moon, only the glow of their light. “Mmm,” he hummed in response, stepping next to Rhett. “It is a wonderful view.” Lincoln looked up at Rhett’s softly lit features, watched his eyes flutter closed as he began to sway gently from side to side.

Rhett dropped his chin and looked over at Lincoln.

Lincoln was startled by the sudden eye contact and held his breath, growing more light-headed with each passing second.

Rhett looked back to the sky. “I was coming to find you.”

In the absence of Rhett’s gaze, Lincoln was able to breathe and gather himself. He waited for Rhett to continue, but he’d fallen silent, dropping his cigarette and stamping it out with a twist of his toe. “You… you wouldn’t have made it past the gate,” Lincoln laughed nervously.

“I had to do something.” Rhett hooked his thumb behind his suspender, sliding it over the fraying material. “I had see you.”

Though Rhett appeared calm, Lincoln could see the signs of his nerves in the subtle tremble of his lip as he spoke, in the fidgeting of his fingers, and in the ragged sound of his indrawn breaths. “I’ve been seeing you everywhere.” The words spilled from Lincoln’s lips before he had a chance to think about how ridiculous they might sound.

Rhett turned to face him, squaring their shoulders, and in doing so, had moved closer.

Lincoln wasn’t sure what had come over him. Was it the ale? Or had Rhett charmed him into submission with the warm notes from his bass? It hardly mattered now. He was powerless to stop the torrent of words that began to flow from his lips. “I see your face in crowds…”

Rhett’s eyes darted between Lincoln’s, one cheek rounding from the lopsided curl of his lip.

Lincoln continued, though he could no longer meet Rhett’s smiling eyes. “When I close my eyes…” Lincoln traced his fingertips over his forehead. He couldn’t believe what he was saying, who he was saying it to, what he was finally admitting.

Rhett reached out for him but he stepped back.

“I see you in my dreams.” The sound of Lincoln’s pulse hammered in his ears, nearly deafening.

Rhett’s steady breathing ceased as he closed the gap between them again, reaching out a tentative hand and closing it around Lincoln’s trembling one.

The world fell silent as Rhett’s calloused fingertips traced over the tendons of Lincoln’s hand.

Rhett pulled him closer, his other hand teasing at Lincoln’s leather jacket.

Lincoln thought he might burst out of his skin. He’d come here to talk and yet they’d barely exchanged a sentence. Lincoln felt like he was being pulled into a swirling vortex of a hurricane, entirely out of control in Rhett’s presence. “Rhett… I–”

“Shh,” Rhett whispered, interrupting Lincoln’s protest. His hand worked its way from Lincoln’s hand to his wrist, his upper arm, his shoulder, while the trailing fingers of the other found purchase just above Lincoln’s hip.

This all seemed so inevitable now that Lincoln looked up into Rhett’s hooded eyes. Like every decision he’d ever made had carried him to this very place.

Rhett pulled Lincoln to him. The heat of their bodies warmed the cool evening air around them as Rhett dipped his head and brought his lips to Lincoln’s ear. “I’ve dreamed of you too,” he breathed against the skin of Lincoln’s neck.

The ground underfoot threatened to give way beneath him, but Rhett took on the slack weight. A soft groan escaped Lincoln’s lips before he pinched them between his teeth. He tipped his head to the side, breathing rapidly through his nose as Rhett burrowed into the crook of his neck. He was overcome by sensation.

Rhett’s hand cupped the side of his neck while the other clutched greedily at his waist, drawing Lincoln’s body ever closer. Rhett hummed against Lincoln’s skin as he parted his lips and pressed a tender kiss to the artery under Lincoln’s chin, each throbbing pulse the embodiment of words he couldn’t say.

Lincoln couldn’t trap the sounds of pleasure that begged to escape and he moaned as his limp arms twitched forward, searching for Rhett. His entire body buzzed and tingled as he wrapped his arms around Rhett’s neck.

Rhett smiled against Lincoln’s skin before trailing soft kisses up to his jaw line.

Lincoln felt as though his body were being played like an instrument, expertly and with intent. Rhett found his notes, plucking just the right strings, eliciting the sounds he desired.

Fingers toyed with the hair at the nape of Lincoln’s neck, tickling and teasing. It was all too much to take and yet, nowhere near enough. Lincoln wanted more; he wanted to feel what he’d always feared would ruin him, now never more certain that it was in fact the only thing that would save him from damnation.

Lincoln pulled away, his hands cupping the shells of Rhett’s ears, palms tickled by soft hairs, fingers digging into curled blond strands.

Rhett’s humming stopped as their eyes met. His lips glistened and his eyes gleamed, blown pupils reflecting the entirety of the full moon.

Lincoln’s thumbs traced the soft curves of Rhett’s cheekbones, his eyes darted over each feature, memorizing each subtle detail There was no fighting what was to come. Every carefully laid brick in the wall he’d built to keep these feelings at bay gave way, the mortar dried and cracked no longer able to hold its form. Nothing mattered. Expectations, obligation, duty, and propriety be damned.

[Lincoln surged forward, covering Rhett’s mouth with his own.](http://valvenaut.tumblr.com/post/153186199714/lincoln-surged-forward-covering-rhetts-mouth) The wall crumbled to dust in. Every kiss ever written, ever penned or painted, they were all a pale attempt to capture the perfection of this feeling. The heat of Rhett’s touch was all consuming, like he’d been placed in a kiln, his previous form melting away, reshaped by a touch so long denied. He wanted nothing more than to be changed, reformed and molded by the man in his arms.

Rhett groaned against Lincoln’s mouth, lips parting as their breath mingled. Rhett’s tongue traced a delicate line over Lincoln’s soft lower lip, a subtle plea for permission.

Lincoln let go. He allowed Rhett in, tasting him. He tasted of tobacco and bourbon, and of a sweetness Lincoln couldn’t place. It was intoxicating, transcendental, and whole. Lincoln dared to explore, his tongue tracing over Rhett’s, dragging over the points of his teeth as their mouths melded into one.

A rumbling, throaty sound passed between them, emanating from deep within Rhett's chest as he pulled away from Lincoln’s searching mouth.

Lincoln looked up at him, his lips throbbed, kiss-plumped and slick with Rhett. No more perfect a first kiss had ever been shared between two people, Lincoln was certain.

Rhett’s grip on Lincoln tightened, greedy and insistent where it had once been tender and yielding. He stepped forward, eyes dark, hidden beneath his heavy brow.

Lincoln stumbled trying to keep his footing. He huffed out a lung of air as his back slammed into the stone wall. “Rhett… what–”

Rhett interrupted Lincoln by closing lips over his words. Rhett’s roaming hands grabbed at Lincoln’s wrists, pinning them to the wall as he rocked his body forward, his heaving chest pressing into Lincoln’s.

The feeling of Rhett’s body against his, trapped against the wall under his grip, it was too much too fast. The perfect moment had become an overwhelming shove into unexplored territory. Lincoln’s body responded instinctively to the contact, but his mind was no longer compliant and the tormenting images that had plagued him in his sleep began flooding in, his nightmares made manifest.

Lincoln struggled against Rhett’s grip on him, groaning in protest into Rhett’s hungry mouth. He’d never felt more helpless, his body yearned for more, but his mind would allow him no such freedom. But Rhett’s tenacious hold was not easily broken. Lincoln managed to free one of his wrists from Rhett’s grip and shoved Rhett backward.

Rhett’s eyes fluttered open and his expression shifted to concern in an instant. He released Lincoln’s other hand and stepped back, tracing his index finger over his lower lip. “I’m so sorry… I–”

“It’s okay.” Lincoln interrupted Rhett’s apology. “I just… I didn’t…” he scrambled for the right words. He wished he could be angry with Rhett, blame him for the images that swirled through his mind. But he had no one to blame but himself. He had kissed Rhett, and in doing so he’d unleashed something that he was sure would refuse to be tethered again. If it weren’t for his defiance of a truth that was now all too clear, their bodies would still be intertwined.

Rhett moved to stand behind him. “I shouldn’t have pushed you… I just… I want...” He reached for Lincoln’s hand, the pads of his fingers grazing Lincoln’s skin for a moment before pulling away. “I _need_ to know you.”

Rhett twisted the toe of his shoe into the gravel “But… If you don’t...” he trailed off.

The genuine tenderness in Rhett’s earnest admission only made him all the more endearing and Lincoln smiled. His plaguing thoughts may have sullied their perfect moment, but he wanted to let Rhett in, to let him see who he was, and to _show_ him what his body would not yet allow. He turned to Rhett, searching out his eyes. He smoothed his hand down Rhett’s arm and tentatively took his hand. “Come with me.”

Rhett looked down at Lincoln’s hand and then back to his face. His cheeks rounding over an uncertain smile.

“I have something I want to show you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! All of your love an encouragement keeps me going ;)
> 
> RTR <3
> 
>  **Art for This Chapter:**  
>  By: Valvenaut  
> [A Kiss Long in the Making](http://valvenaut.tumblr.com/post/153186199714/lincoln-surged-forward-covering-rhetts-mouth)  
> 
> 
> By: Magicbubblepipe  
>  [Sweet Kisses](http://magicbubblepipe.tumblr.com/post/164045174765/im-back-again-with-an-illustration-for-two-fronts)


	8. Who I Am

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Recommended Listening:**   
>  [Thoughts - Michael Shulte](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=npkj_3IdPVQ)   
>  [Fade Into You - Sam Palladio & Clare Bowen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DJGz4K1m22Y)   
>  [Keep You Warm - Jason Gladwin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DvsDT0Yt-0U)

**_August 31, 1940: RAF Church Fenton, Yorkshire, UK._**

“Link!” Rhett hissed under his breath. “Link, I really don’t think I should–”

“Shhh!” Link scolded. “You want to get caught?” He looked over his shoulder at Rhett, flashing his sharp canines in a devious smirk.

Rhett rolled his eyes, but remained silent. Though the darkness was shrouding, Rhett was sure that at any moment a glaring spot-light might pin them down, exposing them. The RAF base was no place for a civilian, certainly not now, not during the turbulent times of war.

Link stepped through the high grass; the dew on the blades glittered in the moonlight. He approached the fence that surrounded the airfield, crouching down and peering through the chain-linked wire. He wove his head, squinting into the darkness. “Get down!” Link grabbed the sleeve or Rhett’s shirt, yanking him down into the grass.

Rhett felt an immediate panic wash over him, numbing his limbs and starting his heart racing. He stumbled, falling against Link, catching his weight with an outstretched hand, his fingers digging to the damp earth. “What’s wrong? Did someone–” Rhett’s question was interrupted by Link’s chuckling.

Link covered his mouth with his forearm, his body shuddering with the effort of containing his laughter.

“Link!” Rhett complained, narrowing his eyes and jabbing Link with a bent elbow.

“Relax,” Link said, looking up at him over his shoulder.

Rhett’s cheek twitched, the smallest smile making itself known. Even in the darkness, Link’s light eyes picked up the small hints of light, shining out through his dark lashes.

“It’s two in the morning, no one is going to see us.” Link crept forward and pulled at the corner of the fence. It peeled back, leaving an opening large enough to sneak through.

"Then why are we sneaking?" Rhett tipped his head to the side and narrowed his eyes.

"Just a precaution," Link winked.

“Don’t you have a curfew or something? Headcounts?” Rhett questioned. “You know... military responsibility and all.” He tried to cover his concern with cheek.

Link dropped his head and sighed. “Have you always been such a worrier?” He turned and crept through the hole in the fence, holding it open from the other side. “I already told you… I’m on leave. No one is looking for me, I promise.” Link beckoned Rhett with a wave of his hand.

Rhett huffed in resignation, crawling forward on his hands and knees and squeezing through the nearly too-small hole. A broken link in the fence wire snagged the fabric of his shirt, tearing through it and digging a small scrape into the flesh of his shoulder. The sound of ripping fabric and his sharp wince cut through the darkness.

“Oh, damn!” Link let go of the fence and reached out for Rhett, thumbing over the tear in the shoulder of his shirt, the pad of his finger grazing Rhett’s abraded skin.

Rhett looked down at Link’s hand; his body was so close that Rhett could feel the warmth of Link’s skin. The stinging burn of the scrape faded. He turned to Link, the moonlight reflected off of his smooth skin. “It’s… it’s no matter… it’s just a ratty old shirt.”

Link pulled his fingers back, rubbing his thumb over his forefingers. “You’re bleeding.” Link reached into his jacket and pulled out a white handkerchief. He dabbed the soft fabric onto the slowly seeping wound.

“Link… you don’t have to…” Rhett’s protest trailed off as Link’s tender touch soothed him. He fought a battle with his internal desire. He wanted Link: he had tasted what his life could be with him. The kiss they had shared was one of the most profound moments of his life. Rhett could still feel the ghost of Link’s lips on his, a tingling trick of the senses. It would be so easy to capture Link’s mouth again with his body so close, but he wouldn’t push.

Link dabbed the bloodied cloth a few more times, pressing to be sure the bleeding had slowed before pulling at a hanging thread as he ran his hand over Rhett’s shoulder, fingers trailing as he stood. “This way.” He pointed across the field toward a large building, a single pinprick of light shining from the rounded peak of its roof.

Rhett stood, dusting his hands over his trousers. Link had revealed little of his plan, but Rhett had followed after him with little hesitation which, in hindsight, had been rather foolish. They’d managed a ride from Tadcaster to Church Fenton in the back of a kindly patron’s truck, sitting amongst crates and rusted tools, but Rhett was fairly certain he would be making the trip back alone and on foot.

“It’s just over here.” Link smiled over his shoulder, moving with a skip.

The steel-framed building that seemed doll-sized from their earlier position now towered above them. Its large doors were closed, but the smell of oil and fuel permeated the air. Rhett stopped, staring up at the hangar.

“Come on.” Link tugged at the cotton of Rhett’s shirt that pooled at his elbow.

Link tugged Rhett around the corner of the building. A gleaming line of planes shone in the darkness. Rhett stumbled to a stop, staring up at the mass of metal in front of him.

“That one there,” Link pointed. “That’s Garrett’s.” He ran his hand over the bottom of the fuselage. “He’s already scratched the damn thing.” Link picked at what must have been a scratch in the green paint.

Rhett smiled, watching the ease with which Link moved around the large, imposing machines. “Clumsy, is he?” Rhett smirked.

“Careless, more like.” Link gave a small laugh. “Foolhardy.”

“Which one’s yours?” Rhett moved closer, outstretching his hand but not daring to touch.

Link grabbed Rhett’s hand. “Here.” He pulled Rhett behind him to the plane next to Garrett’s. “This is her.”

Rhett reluctantly allowed Link’s hand to fall from his. The plane seemed more disheveled and battered than the others, the paint clearly duller, even in the darkness, large portions of the target pattern scraped away. Rhett appraised the plane a moment longer before turning his attention to Link.

“Since I’m the youngest of the rookies… I got landed with Bertha, here.” Link looked up at the plane as though it were a beloved pet. He rested his hand on its nose, splaying out his fingers with obvious affection. “But she and I… we get along.”

Rhett smiled at Link, watching as he traced his fingers over the seam in the metal sheeting of the plane’s body, moving toward the wing. Rhett suddenly felt as though he were intruding on something sacred, a moment so pure he was certain he was unworthy.

Link hopped up onto the wing. The metal gave a small groan in complaint as he turned to face Rhett, reaching out an open hand.

Rhett wanted with every fibre of himself to take Link’s hand, to accept his offer. But he couldn’t help the question that formed on his lips. “Why did you bring me here?” He hated himself for asking as he watched Link deflate at his question.

Link dropped his gaze, adjusting his glasses.

“I don’t mean… I just…” Rhett stumbled over his words. “This just seems…” Rhett moved closer. “Like something special.”

Link’s features softened; a quivering twitch of his lips preceded a gentle smile. “You said you wanted to know me.” He reached out for Rhett again.

“I said…” Rhett took his hand without hesitation, allowing Link to hoist him up onto the wing. “I _needed_ to know you.” Their bodies brushed against one another as they steadied their feet.

Link’s skin flushed as he looked down between them at their entwined fingers.

The cool Yorkshire air warmed between them, that same magnetic pull drawing them together as it had before. Rhett rubbed his thumb over the back of Link’s hand.

Link smiled up at Rhett, his thumb mimicking Rhett’s for a moment before his grip loosened, and he released Rhett’s hand. He turned abruptly and slid back the glass panel over the cockpit, flipping down a metal hatch.

Rhett looked past him into the plane. Though much of the interior was obscured in the darkness, many panels and controls picked up hints of light.

Link stepped back, placing his hand on the plane’s windshield. “Well go on.” He nodded toward the small opening. “Get in.”

Rhett raised a brow, tilting his head. “You expect this,” he gestured over his long body, “to fit in there?” Rhett quipped.

“It might be a bit of a tight squeeze.” Link covered his chest with his hand as he chuckled. “You probably won’t get stuck,” he winked.

Rhett shook his head, letting out a small sigh. “Alright.” He gripped the frame of the windshield. “But if I’m still wedged in here in the morning, you’ll have some explaining to do.”

“Nah…” Link leaned over the front of the plane, rubbing the sleeve of his jacket over a small smear on the glass. “I’ll just throw a blanket over you or something,” Link smirked.

Rhett could see more of the cockpit now, and every knob and lever looked more intimidating than the next. “Are you sure I won’t accidently blow something up?”

Link rolled his eyes. “Would you just get in already?”

Rhett steadied himself on the wing, gripping firmly to the glass on either side of the cockpit’s opening. He drew in a deep breath and clambered into the pilot’s seat, his body awkwardly folding over itself, his knees bent into his chest. He looked up at Link.

“What?” Link laughed. “I told you it would be a tight fit.” He stepped in front of the opening, looking down at Rhett’s contorted body.

Rhett wiggled into the hollow seat, groaning in complaint.

Link leaned over him. “Just try to get your feet on the pedals. You’ll have more room.”

Rhett turned out his ankles, bowing his legs as his feet slipped into the small opening at the nose of the plane. His bent knees still blocked his view of half of the controls, but he could at the very least breathe.

”Those pedals,” Link closed the steel hatch, leaning against it, “they control the tail flaps and rudder.”

Rhett looked up into Link’s gleaming eyes, his hands resting on his knees.

“That lever there,” Link pointed, “that’s the throttle.” He rested his elbow on the frame of the opening.

Rhett tentatively closed his hand around the lever’s handle, the coating over the metal was worn and smooth. He closed his eyes and imagined what it must feel like to hurtle through the air, the controls in front of you the only lifeline. “Aren’t you afraid?” Rhett asked looking up at him.

Link sighed, pinching his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Am I afraid…” he repeated the question, eyebrows furrowing in concentration. “Aren’t we all?” Link asked plainly.

Rhett nodded. “I suppose so.”

The war had stolen a great many things: life and love, innocence and freedom. Link was right. Fear had become a ubiquitous part of everyday life. Air raid sirens and warning lights, telegrams and headlines, the harsh reality of a world at war.

“In training, standing behind the first plane I ever saw take flight...” Link said as his eyes fluttered closed. “This all seemed so far away.” He let his head fall back. “But now, there’s no room for denial of fact. Word trickles in every day of another airfield bombing. The Germans are gearing up for something… something that should scare us all.”

The headlines had been predominated by stories of the German Luftwaffe’s assault on British Soil. Many of the RAF bases surrounding London had suffered losses. Church Fenton had escaped the same fate, but Rhett wondered for how long that would be the case.

Link’s eyes opened. “But there is no room for fear up there.” He pointed to the sky.

Looking up at Link now, Rhett saw him as much more than the beautiful, intriguing stranger he’d spotted from across a smoky pub, more than the American pilot. Sitting in his plane, where he will sit when he is called to battle, where he will face things Rhett could scarcely fathom. Rhett was in awe of his courage, of the steadiness of his voice, of his resolve and bravery.

Link drew in a deep lung of air, scratching at the back of his hair. “So the control column,” Link nudged his glasses up his nose and then pointed to the arm between Rhett’s legs, “is the heart of the cockpit.” He reached in and gripped the of the ring at the top of the column.

Rhett was glad of Link’s efforts to change the subject, happy for the distraction from thoughts he was sure would carry him into the darkness, into loss and loneliness.

Link traced his thumb over a small orange button. “The trigger for the guns.” His index finger flicking a small lever. “Parking brake.”

Rhett’s brow shot up. “A parking brake?” It seemed so strange for such a sophisticated machine to possess something as inane as a parking brake.

“What?” Link smirked. “I for one, like her to stay where I park her,” he laughed.

Rhett chuckled, looking up at the array of displays and switches. “And this?” he smiled pointing at the large dial in the lower right corner of the panel.

“Which?” Link leaned well into the cockpit, straining to see where Rhett was pointing.

As Link’s body hovered over him, Rhett detected the scent of his aftershave: woody notes of sandalwood, and intoxicating hints of spice. The long line of Link’s neck was stretched out inches away from Rhett’s lips, a tormenting temptation, but he wouldn’t push.

Link let out an amused huff. “Very funny,” he said, tapping his finger to the fuel gauge.

Rhett squinted away the lust in his eyes. “Are you making assumptions about my knowledge of the particulars of aviation, Flight Officer Neal?” Rhett teased, attempting to ease the tension, eyebrow raised.

Link straightened, making eye contact. “Fuel gauges are rather a universal thing,” he grinned, flashing him a knowing glance before gripping the steel hatch, leaning back on his heels. “So I guess I am left to question your motivation for asking.”

Their banter was relaxed and easy, seeming almost like a rehearsed act. Rhett’s wit had garnered him a reputation for cheek, but he felt equally matched by Link, perhaps even bested. It was exhilarating to be challenged, so he didn’t hesitate to retort. “Are you suggesting impropriety?” He covered his mouth with his hand, feigning bemusement.

Link ran his index finger along the line of his lower lip as he cupped the back of his neck with his other hand. His confident demeanor was shifting, bravado giving way to reticence.

Rhett dropped his gaze, wishing he’d chosen different words; he’d spoiled the moment by doing just what he’d promised himself he wouldn’t: he’d pushed. Before he could apologize, the soft sound of Link’s voice cut through the silence.

“Has it always been so easy for you?” Link asked, still looking down at his feet, fingers fidgeting.

Rhett’s stomach dropped. It had been rather obvious since their introduction that this was not something Link had allowed himself to feel. Rhett could see himself in Link, like he was looking at a distorted reflection of the man he’d once been. A crease formed between his brows. “No… no, it hasn’t.” Rhett spoke softly, making no attempt to hide the slight quiver in his voice.

Link looked up. Even though the moon was now tucked behind dark, drifting clouds, his blue eyes reflected more of its light than before, glittering and shimmering in its soft white glow.

Though the early signs of forming tears in Link’s eyes ripped into Rhett’s chest, he was certain he’d never seen a more beautiful hue.

“And your friend…” Link tailed off, breaking eye contact. “You told him?”

“Teddy? I’m not sure I could have ever told him.” Rhett traced his finger around the rim of one of the dials in front of him. “He...” Rhett’s palms began to sweat as he recalled the particulars of the night Teddy had walked in on his self-discovery. “He figured it out.”

Link ran his hand through his hair, stopping to roll it between his fingers. “He seems to have figured out quite a lot.” He turned away, resting his weight against the side of the plane.

Rhett grimaced. “I’m sorry about that… Teddy’s not one overly concerned with tact.” He rolled his eyes, making an internal note to reprimand his friend at the first available opportunity.

Link huffed a small sound of amusement, pulling off his glasses, holding them up, and peering through the lenses into the night. “Don’t apologize,” he said, sliding them back over his nose and turning around. “It’s good that you don’t have to hide from him...”

Rhett needn’t ask the question that ran through his mind. He knew Link had not been afforded the same luxury; he could see it in his eyes, in his guarded reactions, in the tortured sound of his voice that night he’d run from the alley. Rhett wasn’t sure what to say, or that he should speak at all. So when Link’s voice filled the night air, Rhett sighed in relief.

“Do you ever wonder why?” Link asked as his eyes closed and his chin tipped to the sky. He began speaking again without leaving room for a reply. “I often do,” he smiled weakly.

Rhett had lain in bed many a night wondering why he couldn’t just be like everyone else. Wondering what he’d done to deserve the burden of his truth.

“Up there...” Link continued, gazing at the clouding night sky. “It’s the only place I feel like I can be myself.” Link’s body swayed, as if to an unheard melody. “The only place I feel free.”

Rhett’s breath caught in his throat. Where Link found his escape in flight, Rhett found his own in music; it had always been a refuge. As a child he’d not understood the complexity of the emotions that flooded through him when he played, how they had helped him stave off the hateful inner voice.

When he’d lost his mother, and with her the therapy of music, Rhett had fallen into one of the darkest times of his life. His features contorted as he realized that Link had lived nearly the entirety of his life not knowing the bliss of his own retreat. Not knowing what it felt like to be unshackled, even if only for a few moments. Link had existed in a darkness Rhett knew all too well.

Through his gritted teeth, Rhett grunted as he squirmed in the uncomfortable steel seat. The metal dug into the palms of his hands as he repositioned himself for a clearer view.

“Funny thing about clouds...” Link smiled, staring up at them. “They don’t judge you.”

Rhett stared up at Link; his dark hair hung down over his eyes, but could not hide them entirely. Though Link wore a smile, the pain behind it seeped through. Rhett’s mind was awash with the words he could say, though none of them seemed right, all of them sounding contrived or disingenuous. Rhett wished he could take Link’s burden onto his own back, even though he was confident Link would only dig in his heels and decline the offer. But Rhett could refuse to allow him to carry it alone and, standing beside Link, he could lessen the load. “You’re not alone.”

Link leaned closer, resting his weight on his forearms. “Aren’t I?” he breathed, hanging his head between his arms, rocking it slowly from side to side.

Rhett’s skin erupted in goosebumps as Link’s breath washed over his wrist. He shook his head, gripping the fabric that covered his thigh. “No,” the word slipped through the lips he chewed.

Link stilled his movement as he lifted his gaze. His brows knitted, creasing the skin around his eyes, his lips twitching as his erratic, shallow breathing escaped between them. He reached across the plane with one hand, gripping the frame on the opposite side. “Show me,” he said with a tone of defiant certainty, eyes darting hungrily between Rhett’s.

Rhett’s heart pounded in his ears, Link’s perfect lips were inches from his, slightly parted and glistening. The hairs on Rhett’s arms stood on end, his stomach flipped and fluttered. He released his desperate grip on the fabric of his trousers and cupped Link’s face in his hand, his fingers tracing softly over Link’s warm skin. He tilted his head and closed his eyes.

Their lips had only just touched, when a cold drop of water landed squarely on Rhett’s upturned cheek. He pulled back, and looked skyward. Where once the moon had filled the inky black, only the faintest glow could be seen through thick grey clouds. The metallic tink of raindrops to metal began to resonate through the darkness.

Link let out a breathy laugh before tugging Rhett’s sleeve. “We’d better get you out of there.” He opened the small hatch. “If I learned anything in the short time I’ve been here, it’s that it’s never just a few drops,” he joked, holding out his hand.

Rhett wiggled his numb feet clear of the pedals and inched his back up the seat, struggling to free himself from the chokehold the small cockpit had on his ridiculously oversized frame. The rhythm of the rain intensified, the drops creating a symphony of sound as they struck metal, glass, fabric, mud.

Link grabbed Rhett’s hand and hauled him free, out onto the wing.

The surface, now slick with the fallen rain, proved too much for Rhett’s still tingling toes and he stumbled into Link, clasping his waist to prevent his tumbling over the side.

“Woahh!” Link grabbed onto Rhett’s elbows, spreading his feet to steady their combined weight. “You’re not too graceful, are you?” he teased, releasing one of his hands and brushing the damp hair from Rhett’s forehead.

Though Rhett was certain of his footing, he held fast, cradling Link’s body in his hands, the warmth of Link’s skin no match for the thin cotton of his t-shirt. The rain beaded at the tips of Rhett’s hair, trickling down his cheeks and neck.

Link smiled and gave Rhett’s arm a small shake. “I gotta get her closed up and we need to get out of this dang rain.” He held his hands up, collecting a few drops before flicking his fingers at Rhett while wearing an impish grin.

Rhett begrudgingly released his grip and watched as Link darted around him and adjusted the small door, sliding closed the glass shield.

Link hopped down from the wing, landing deftly on his feet, making only a small disturbance in a pool of collected rain. “Come on!” he waved.

Rhett lept from the wing without hesitation, splashing down next to Link, sending water and mud flying. He looked down at the mess he’d made of their clothes and couldn’t contain himself, a hearty belly laugh erupting from him as he laid his hand over his chest.

Link chuckled before his own laughter built, beginning to harmonize with Rhett’s. But as their eyes met, the jovial sounds faded.

The rain pelted down on them, soaking and cool. Rhett followed beads of water as they traveled over the planes of Link’s face, gathering at the point of his chin, and in the dip of his upper lip. His glasses were speckled with tiny rounded flecks, some of which gathered and streamed down the lenses. His wet clothes clung to his body, his open leather jacket revealing the soaked t-shirt stretched across his chest, as though painted on his skin. Every cell in Rhett’s body vibrated, screaming for contact. “Link… I–”

Link lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Rhett’s neck, fingers knitting into the damp hairs at the base.

Rhett steadied himself, his hands on Link’s waist, savouring the feeling of Link’s hands in his hair, fingers clawing at the skin of his neck. The cool trickles of rain counteracted by the heat of Link’s skin on his.

Link squinted the rain from his eyes, parted his lips, and crashed them into Rhett’s.

Rhett groaned into Link’s soft mouth, his hands pulling Link closer until their bodies pressed together. Link’s velvety lips tasted of sweet hints of mint; Rhett teased at them with his tongue.

Their mouths moved together, wet, and then wetter as the rain turned torrential. Their bodies fit, like two halves of a whole, melding into one in the din of hammering drops. Each touch of skin to skin, burned with the heat of shared passion, chests heaving into one another's, hands clasping at fabric and the soft bodies beneath.

“Link…” Rhett moaned.

Link smiled into Rhett’s skin as he pulled back, breaking their kiss. He laid his hands over Rhett's chest and brought his lips to Rhett's ear. “I like that,” he purred.

Rhett shivered at the warmth of his breath. “Hmm?” he asked, dazed and kissed breathless, [rolling his forehead against Link’s.](http://valvenaut.tumblr.com/post/153265602299/link-smiled-into-rhetts-skin-as-he-pulled-back)

“I like it when you call me, Link.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that this update has taken me forever, and I wish I could say that will change for the rest of the story. But for the foreseeable future, I can only promise that I will update as often as I possibly can.
> 
> RTR <3
> 
>  **Art for This Chapter:**  
>  By: Valvenaut  
> [Together in the Rain](http://valvenaut.tumblr.com/post/153265602299/link-smiled-into-rhetts-skin-as-he-pulled-back)


	9. Willful Surrender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Recommended Listening:**   
>  [This Is Why I Need You - Jesse Ruben](https://youtu.be/C4NgsbkyeJs)   
>  [Listen (Listen, Listen) - Wintersleep](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=otxvL4t3atY)   
>  [Sun - Sleeping At Last](https://youtu.be/lOQrfLFDUKY)   
>  [Ache - Still Weeks](https://youtu.be/nnS4P2WIKP4)

_**September 1, 1940: Grimston, Yorkshire, UK.** _

The first traces of the new day’s sunlight filtered through the trees along the dusty road. Rhett squinted as the pink-orange beams scattered across his cheeks. He tipped his chin to the brightening sky and spun around on the balls of his feet, arms outstretched, soaking in the warmth of the waning summer’s heat.

He wasn’t sure for exactly how long he’d been walking, his mind treating him with perfect distractions, ones that were most assuredly responsible for keeping the ache in his feet at bay on his walk back to Tadcaster. Rhett slowed to a stop, standing still on the road’s edge, his hands falling to his sides as he sighed in contentment. Images of the previous night flashed behind his lids, tinted red by the morning sun. It was like a dream, everything painted in soft detail, all except Link’s perfect face which cut through the fog in striking detail. His gleaming eyes and bright smile, the curve of his nose and cut of his jaw.

Link’s lips had left a lasting mark on him, faint hints of their softness still teasing his own. Rhett traced over the tingling skin with the tip of his finger. His mouth widened into a satisfied smile. He could think of no more perfect a moment than the one he had shared with Link, under the grey sky that had opened over them.

 _‘I like it when you call me, Link.’_ Rhett heard Link’s voice, like an echo in his mind, a gentle tug from his subconscious, pulling him back into a memory he was all too willing to relive.

~~~ * ~~~

[Panted breaths, barely heard over the assaulting rain that battered earth and metal. Water collected in their hair, and ran down over Rhett’s nose from Link’s brow. Their foreheads pressed together, shielding their eyes from the falling drops.](http://valvenaut.tumblr.com/post/153265602299/link-smiled-into-rhetts-skin-as-he-pulled-back)

Link’s lips, flush with the heat of their kiss, curved into a gentle smile. “We’re soaked,” he chuckled, fingers gently toying with the collar of Rhett’s shirt. He looked up, squinting into the falling rain.

Rhett stared unashamedly at the long line of Link’s neck and the pronounced apple in his throat. “We sure are.” He leaned forward, preparing to press his lips to the beckoning skin, when Link’s gaze dropped, meeting his.

“Mmm,” Link grinned. His fingers fell away from Rhett’s shirt as he stepped back and turned away. “C’mon,” he implored, curling a finger, looking back at Rhett over his shoulder.

Rhett jogged after Link, his feet sinking into the soggy soil. As they rounded the corner of the hangar, Rhett’s foot slid out from under him. He flailed only a moment before Link’s hand closed around his arm, hauling him up by the elbow.

“So this _rescuing_ is gonna be a regular thing, is it?” Link smirked.

Rhett clapped his hands over Link’s shoulders, grateful for the strength of them as he steadied his feet. “Perhaps,” he winked.

Link laughed, turning toward the small door next to the closed hangar opening, pawing at the soaking pocket of his jacket. He shook the water free of his hair, sending drops spattering out from the tips. Rhett could feel them land across his face, warmer than those borne from the clouds.

Keys rattled as Link fumbled them in his wet fingers. He cursed under his breath as the key slipped into the lock. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

As Rhett stepped over the threshold, he needed no light to appreciate the vastness of the space. The sound of the rain was intensified by the metallic construction, bouncing off the walls, rattling in Rhett’s ears. He covered them instinctively, squinting his eyes. He could hear the muffled sound of Link’s voice, but could barely make him out in the darkness.

Rhett squinted as a light overhead flickered on, followed by another, and another. The length of the hangar illuminated as the hanging lamps hummed to life. The building was larger than his ears had let on, the space well used. The walls were lined with metal shelves, each of them housing an array of parts and tools and discarded rags. Planes sat scattered across the concrete floor, some in obvious disrepair, others prepared to take flight.

“Wow… this is…” Rhett turned and took a few dragging steps backward, trailing off as he smiled at Link, who was leaning against the wall next to the still-open door.

Link pushed away from the wall and shrugged out of his jacket, laying it on the shelf next to him.

Rhett nearly gasped, coming to a stop, staring slack-jawed. Link’s shoulders pulled taut the wet fabric that covered them, dry patches few and far between. The tops of his trousers and teasing hints of skin were exposed as he clenched the fabric of his t-shirt in his hands, wringing it with a firm twist, water splashing onto the floor.

Rhett couldn’t look away, worried that if he did, he might miss something; unwilling to even blink for fear of it.

Link shook the water from his hands and brushed the hair back from his eyes, eyes that narrowed as his hand stilled in his hair. “What?” he asked, looking down over his body.

Rhett realized his ogling must have been all too obvious. “Nothing… It’s just,” he muttered, taking a few steps closer. “You’re kind of beautiful.”

Link scoffed, running his hands over his shirt. But Rhett could see the change in the colour of his cheeks. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Link twisted the toe of his muddy shoe on the concrete.

Rhett stepped closer still. The falling rain outside the open door glittered, reflecting back the warm light. 

Link pinched his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger; his other hand toyed with the hem of his shirt. As Rhett reached out a hand, cupping it around Link’s waist, Link looked up and their eyes locked.

The rain seemed to stop as suddenly as it had begun, though Rhett couldn’t be sure it wasn’t still pouring. Link’s presence was all encompassing. Standing in front of the entrancing man, hand encircling his body, watching the rapid rise and fall of his chest, and listening to the breath that escaped through his perfect lips, there could well have been an air-raid siren going off and Rhett was certain he would struggle to notice.

Rhett curled his finger under Link’s chin, looking down into the soft blue of his eyes. Their noses brushed as Rhett touched his lips to Link’s cheek, the stubble tickling his skin. His heartbeat sounded in his ears when he felt Link’s hand wrap around the back of his neck.

Link turned his cheek and captured Rhett’s mouth with his own, intense and deliberate. He arched his body, curving into Rhett’s, rolling his hips and clasping his hands together behind Rhett’s head, fingers tangling in wet hair.

Rhett had never tasted anything as sweet or as satisfying. He could no sooner deny Link’s plea than he could stop the fluttering beat of his own heart. This moment was a gift, a feeling he’d had before, a perfect snapshot in time, but he’d only ever come to that realization after the fact in the past. After it was too late to capture every detail and hoard it away to never be forgotten. So he savoured the taste and feel of Link’s silky mouth, the soft sounds he made when their lips parted over one another’s. Rhett would remember this, always.

Link’s body fit Rhett’s, like a key in a lock. His eager mouth was hungry, and tenacious and Rhett struggled to sate Link’s furious appetite. Rhett’s hands slid up under the hem of Link’s t-shirt, and the heat of his skin warmed Rhett’s calloused fingertips as he traced over the protrusion of Link’s ribcage.

“Rhett…” Link moaned, his hands moving to undo the top buttons of Rhett’s shirt.

Doubt is acidic, it burns and corrodes. Even lost in the swirling perfection of intimacy, doubt’s glaring spotlight found Rhett. Though he wanted nothing more than what he held in his hands, that moment behind the Hart and Thistle, the moment when he had pushed, invaded his thoughts. You’re pushing now. He’s not ready. You’re going to ruin this. He’s not sure what he wants. Be what he needs. Rhett squinted, wishing he could force the thoughts from his mind, but his lips faltered and his hands dropped to Link’s waist before reluctantly falling from the welcoming warmth of Link’s skin.

As Rhett broke away from their impassioned kiss, Link stood tall on the tips of his toes, lips seeking those that had escaped, desperate hands clinging to him, attempting to draw Rhett back.

Rhett’s body vibrated, hummed with want. It would be so easy to give in, to let his urges rule and control, to take from Link what he seemed so willing to offer. But drawing on the tiniest fragments of self control, Rhett used them to sever the magnetic attraction of their lips. He rested his forehead against Link’s, looking down over his flushed cheeks and spying hints of his kiss-plump lower lip. ”God…” Rhett groaned, cupping his hands on either side of Link’s neck. “You are so hard to resist.”

Link’s hands clutched the fabric of Rhett’s collar. “Then don’t,” he purred, craning his neck to capture Rhett’s mouth once more.

Rhett pulled away, holding Link at arm’s length, feeling his shoulders deflate, watching his brows fall as he looked to the floor.

“Is…” Link whispered, putting his forefinger to his lips. “Is there… Did I do something wrong?” Link looked up at Rhett though his thick lashes, his brow contorted in worry.

Rhett felt a pit form in his stomach. “No!” he sputtered, looking into Link’s eyes. “No, Link.” Rhett’s smoothed his hand over the back of Link’s neck. “I just… I don’t think we should rush into anything.”

Link’s hands fell limply down Rhett’s chest, hooking around the clasps of his suspenders. “I’ve waited my entire life to _rush_ , Rhett.” Link swallowed, his gaze drifting up to meet Rhett’s.

Rhett felt a pang of guilt shoot through him. His desire for Link burned inside of him like an all-consuming fire, one that he’d only just managed to squelch. But its embers would be quick to re-ignite and burn away the last of his resolve if given the proper fuel. Rhett risked annihilation and pulled Link into his chest, resting his chin on Link’s damp hair. “I know.”

Rhett wanted to say that they had time, that there was no need to rush. But in truth, time was their enemy, each passing second more uncertain than the last. Rhett was surrounded by reminders of just how precious time was. Planes with mounted weapons, pinned maps, and empty ammunition crates, all of it screaming at Rhett to take advantage of every second. But the last thing he wanted was to take advantage of Link.

Link’s warm breath washed over the cool, damp fabric of Rhett’s shirt. “This feels right,” Link whispered. “You feel… right.” He nestled closer, resting his cheek against the exposed V of Rhett’s chest.

“Link…” Rhett’s heart fluttered; this felt like a dream. He feared he would wake and find himself staring at the stained ceiling of his flat. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more than I want you right now.” Rhett ran his hands down Link’s back. “I just want to do this right.”

Link smiled against Rhett’s chest. “Are you saying soaking wet in an airplane hangar isn’t your idea of romantic?” Link teased, fingers toying with a button on Rhett’s shirt.

Rhett laughed, relieved at Link’s levity. He pulled back, his hands resting on Link’s shoulders. “It’s an improvement on a dark alley behind a pub, but it does leave something to be desired,” Rhett chuckled.

Link chewed the corner of his lower lip, smirking up at Rhett. “So chivalrous.” He thumbed the cracked leather of Rhett’s suspender. “I have to admit… not exactly what I was expecting.”

“Oh really?” Rhett questioned. “Expecting less a gentleman, more a cad?”

Link’s jovial laughter echoed around, reverberating off the steel walls and metallic surfaces. As it quieted, Link spoke. “Perhaps I was.”

“You know, we’re playing a show in Church Fenton on Wednesday.” Rhett ran his thumb over Link’s collar bone, following the path of his finger with a lazy gaze.

“Oh?” Link asked, grinning up at Rhett.

Rhett tucked an errant hair behind Link’s ear. “You should come.”

Link closed his eyes and rested his cheek in the palm of Rhett’s hand. He was silent for a moment, his face even and serene.

Rhett took advantage of the quiet moment; he poured over each nuance of Link’s features: the dip of his upper lip, the way his smile sat asymmetrically under his slightly turned-up nose, dark brows and long eyelashes. He was handsome, beautiful even, perfect.

Link’s eyes fluttered open. “The Stag?”

Rhett nodded. He’d played at The Stag a few times; it was always full of officers, being that it was practically on the base.

“Hmm…” Link mused. “I suppose I could probably be persuaded to make the arduous journey down the road.” Link’s smile grew slowly, rounding his cheeks and exposing a few of his sharp teeth. He turned from Rhett and looked out into the night.

Rhett followed Link’s gaze. The sky was brightening, the sunrise still a way off, but the new day was already painting the horizon in a soft pink hue.

Link turned back, meeting Rhett’s gaze. “You remember how I said no one would be looking for me?” Link said, watching as Rhett nodded in response. “Well, that won’t be true for much longer,” he chuckled.

Rhett sighed, his fingers gliding down over Link’s arms. “I’ve a shift at the brewery in the morning.” Rhett’s hands closed around Link’s. “The two hour walk back means I’ll likely be working that one with no shut eye.”

Link tensed. “Uh, sorry about that. Maybe I shouldn’t have dragged you all the way out–”

“No,” Rhett interjected. “No… thank you for bringing me here… for showing me all this.” Rhett looked around the room. “It’s worth any amount of walking and any number of sleepless nights.” Rhett leaned closer and pressed a soft kiss to Link’s forehead.

“As charming as that is… those feet,” Link separated a finger from Rhett’s to point, “they can only carry you so far.” Link whispered, rolling his forehead into the kiss, breathing out a sigh of contentment. He titled his lips towards Rhett’s. “And sleep,” his voice caught in his throat, “is a biological requirement,” he breathed.

Rhett took Link’s lips with his, groaning into Link’s welcoming mouth. This kiss was different, more fevered and desperate, their hands moving greedily over the other’s body, pressed together, hips rolling. Need and passion, lust and excitement. Rhett’s hands roamed over the planes of Link’s back and down over the tops of his trousers as Link’s fingers knotted into his hair. Rhett couldn’t help he greed as his hand slid further, over Link’s round bottom.

Link pushed Rhett’s shoulders and gasped in a lung of air, his eyes were wide and dark. “You should go,” he panted.

Rhett took a step back, and blinked the lust from his eyes. “Right.” He ran his thumb over his lip before stepping back into Link’s arms.

“Go!” Link laughed, shoving him playfully toward the door.

“Fine…" Rhett groaned in frustration, reaching up and ruffling his hair. “I’m going…” He stopped in the doorway, his hand clasping the frame. “So you’ll come?” Rhett turned to Link. “On Wednesday?” he asked, raising an inquisitive brow.

“I’ll be there.”

~~~ * ~~~

Rhett was certain that the three days separating him from Link would seem like more, many more. But he could wait, if he knew he was waiting for Link.

_**September 1, 1940: RAF Church Fenton, Yorkshire, UK.** _

Lincoln closed and locked the door to the hangar, jostling the knob just to be sure. He turned and leaned against it, staring out at the glowing horizon. He touched his cheek where Rhett had kissed it, gliding his fingers over his lips where Rhett’s had been.

He felt like he was looking at the world through new eyes. Even in the dim light of pre-dawn, he could see more colour in his surroundings than he ever had.

As Lincoln walked back to his barracks, he let his eyes drift closed for long moments. Vivid images of Rhett, of the rain, of his first real sexual experience, played behind his closed lids. Every snapshot in time flooding his body with a calmness he was sure he’d never experienced. The logical part of his brain screamed from the dark corners of his mind where he’d tethered it; it called out in protest, yelled out his mistakes, his folly and fault. Lincoln could hear its faint cries but they were no match for the perfect bliss of his soul’s awakening.

He drew in a deep lung of the cool early morning air; it tasted of rain, of damp earth and vegetation. He crouched down on the path’s edge, his fingers tangling into a few long blades of grass. The rain had tipped each of them with a perfect bead of water, each one glinting, reflecting back the morning glow. The combination of the shimmering water droplets and the green of the grass created a colour Lincoln still could not name; the colour of Rhett’s eyes.

Lincoln began to hum softly to himself, the sound of it finding the notes of a song. It was gentle and soft, tinged with a hint of melancholy. It was wholly entrancing, but it wasn’t a song he recognized. He wondered only a moment before placing its inception. Rhett.

Rhett had hummed it against Lincoln’s skin behind the pub; the tune had scored their trip from Tadcaster to the base. Lincoln was sure it was unconscious, a habit that may well irritate those that knew Rhett well, but to Lincoln it was intensely endearing. Music seemed to roll off of Rhett, even in moments of silence, there was a cadence to him, a rhythm.

Lincoln rose from the tall grass and walked the remaining path to the barracks. As he walked the narrow hallway toward the sleeping quarters, he felt anything but tired. He was buzzing and knew he would be unlikely to find sleep this night.

He stepped quietly over the threshold leading to the sleeping quarters; the others would be back from Leeds by now, and sleeping soundly. He knew he may face a few questions in the morning, asked to explain his absence; he would have to devise an excuse for not being there when everyone else returned. It was the sort of thing that would typically have Lincoln shuddering with anxiety, but all he could do was smile down at his feet and fidgeting hands.

Halfway down the row of bunks, low snores and slow breathing coming from the sleeping officers under their covers, Lincoln saw that the lamp next to his own bunk was on, illuminating a figure seated on his bed.

“Garrett?” Lincoln asked in a hissed whisper, rounding the corner of their bunks.

Garrett sat motionless, his hair hanging limply from his forehead, a few of the hanging strands still dripping onto the floor. His elbows rested on his knees, his hands clasped together.

“Garrett, you’re all wet! Get off of my bunk!” Lincoln nudged his shoulder with a closed hand.

Garrett rocked to the side but remained seated. “I uh…. I wasn’t…” Garrett stuttered, still looking down at his wet shoes.

”What’s wrong, Garrett?” Lincoln’s smile began to melt away as Garrett’s apprehensive tone sunk in.

Garrett continued “I wasn’t sure I closed the sash on Bullet…”

Lincoln jolted upright, a shot of adrenaline-fueled anxiety fired through his veins. ”Bullet…” he muttered, nearly inaudibly. His fingers tingled. His mouth hung open and his knees buckled under his weight. He grabbed the rail of their bunks to keep from crumbling to the floor. Bullet, Garrett’s plane. Garrett was wet. Garrett couldn’t look at him. Garrett had–

“I saw you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love to everyone reading this. I know the updates are few and far between, and I appreciate you sticking with me! 
> 
> RTR <3
> 
>  **Art for This Chapter:**  
>  By: Valvenaut  
>  _Joint piece with Chapter 8_  
> [Together in the Rain](http://valvenaut.tumblr.com/post/153265602299/link-smiled-into-rhetts-skin-as-he-pulled-back)


	10. Truth and Consequence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Recommended Listening:**   
>  [It's Okay, You're Okay - Bonjr](https://youtu.be/ou-rVp6EbhM)   
>  [Breath Normal, Nerves Normal - Wintersleep](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nyfaZY3ImkI)   
>  [Arctic - Sleeping At Last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=db29n6g98cY)

_**September 1, 1940: RAF Church Fenton, Yorkshire, UK.** _

Lincoln staggered back, silencing a small gasp with a hand over his mouth. His eyes darted from Garrett’s stooped shoulders, to the door, to his own feet and back to Garrett, his every instinct pleading with him to flee. But Lincoln was frozen in shock, his useless limbs betraying him.

Garrett ran his fingers over his chin. He was silent. His eyes were distant and cold, his brow contorted and wrinkled. The pinkish undertone of his skin was absent, his eyes outlined in dark circles.

Lincoln had witnessed Garrett experience all manner of emotions: glee, elation, excitement, exhaustion, and even fear. But this, this was something new. Lincoln’s stomach churned and flipped he thought he might be sick. Every trace of serenity and inner peace that had sent his soul soaring faded away, draining out through the soles of his feet, grounding him, chaining him in place.

“I heard voices...” Garrett finally broke the silence, his words low and shaky. “There was a light.” Garrett ran his fingers through his hair, down the back of his neck and then buried his face in the palms of his hands, elbows resting on his knees.

“Garrett… I…” Lincoln sputtered, his hands trembling at his sides. His field of vision began to darken, narrowing, closing in on him. His carefully constructed reality was crumbling right in front of him. This moment, this horrible feeling, was one of Lincoln’s nightmares come to life, creeping out from the depths of his subconscious to rip apart his existence. “I… I–”

“Don’t.” Garrett turned to Lincoln, his eyes dark, jaw clenched. “How could you… how could you do that?”

The air seemed thin; Lincoln felt lightheaded and stumbled. His knees gave out and he caught himself on the bed rail and fell onto his bunk, hands either side of his hips keeping him upright.

Garrett pushed himself away, sliding down the bed as Lincoln’s weight settled next to him.

There was no unringing the bell. Garrett had seen the truth of him and Lincoln owed Garrett more than his pathetic silence; he owed him an explanation, even if it might threaten the only real friendship he’d ever had. There had been quiet moments in the darkness of their shared dormitory, and while paddling the canal, that Lincoln had nearly offered Garrett the truth he deserved and the confidante he himself longed for. Lincoln swallowed down the anxious lump in his throat and turned to his friend.

“I don’t know what to say.” Lincoln picked at his fingers, scraping under a thumbnail with another. “I’m… I’ve…” Lincoln prayed for the words, though he was sure that if there was a God, his prayer would surely go unanswered. “Garrett… you weren’t supposed to–”

“I wasn’t supposed to what, Lincoln?” Garrett hissed under his breath. “See… see you…” he stammered. “With a… see you…” Garrett stared down at his fidgeting hands.

Lincoln could feel the tension in the air, like an elastic pulled taut. And though he wanted to move closer – to comfort his friend – he feared it would cause the band to snap and leave a blistered mark, a wound his feeble words would never be able to heal. His fingers trembled as his mind raced, filled with the sound of his own voice rattling off his thoughts in rapid succession. Please don’t hate me. I’m sorry. I should have told you. I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t admit it to myself. I’m still me. I can’t lose you. “Please.” Lincoln’s voice cracked out the only thought he could verbalize.

Garrett’s chest shook as a small huff escaped through his nose. “Is that all you have to say?” he asked, looking up at Link. His furrowed brows narrowed his normally wide eyes and creased his forehead. “All this time… and you–”

“No!” Link interjected, raising his voice. He winced, worried his outburst might rouse their sleeping comrades. “No…” he whispered. “I’ve never… this is the first…” Lincoln stuttered, the words falling apart in his mouth.

Garrett tucked his hand into his pocket, his fingers fiddling with something inside as he chewed on his lip.

Lincoln pulled his glasses from his nose and rubbed his forefinger and thumb over his eyes. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you…”

The room fell silent as Lincoln held his breath. He felt as though everything he’d ever cared about hung in the balance of this moment. Garret had every right to the anger and confusion that contorted his features. Garrett would never have kept a secret like this from Lincoln, he’d shared even his most embarrassing childhood memories and follies. Lincoln felt like a greedy thief, one who’d stolen away Garrett’s ingenuous friendship and offered nothing true of himself in return. He was a deceptive sneak and he didn’t deserve the forgiveness he was all but pleading for. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” Garrett spat, shoving himself up from the hard mattress, crossing his arms over his chest. “You had to know.” He remained facing away from Lincoln, standing in the puddle his wet shoes had made on the floor. “You knew what you were… you knew.” Garrett’s shoulders were tight. “You knew and you _lied_ to me.”

Lincoln stared at his friends back, watching as Garrett’s hands dropped to his sides, his right fist opening and closing around a small object in his palm. It caught the light as Garrett’s fingers parted, it’s metallic edge glinting.

”You lied to Julie…” Garrett muttered under his breath.

Lincoln’s heart grew heavy in his chest, it’s thudding feeling as though it may shatter his breastbone. He’d ruined everything in one misguided and reckless fell swoop. He closed his eyes to escape only to be confronted by the image that had haunted him in his dreams: Julie’s face, streaked with tears, each wet line, his fault. All of this was his fault… and Rhett’s. He tried to pull a breath into his constricted lungs as his eyes fluttered open.

“How could you do this to her?” Garrett turned to face Lincoln, his tight jaw pulling his lips into a thin line; the easy smile he usually wore washed away by the riptide of his anger.

Feeling Garrett’s probing gaze, Lincoln wished he could could be swept away, pulled under by the current, cease to be. He hoped that this was just yet another product of a tortured sleep. A wonderful dream turned nightmare, a familiar pattern that was perhaps repeating. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into soft skin. It burned, a stinging assurance that he would not awake from this torment.

“She deserves better than you.” Garrett spat. “I could have–” he stopped abruptly, looking down at the floor.

Lincoln was unable to look into Garrett’s unfamiliar eyes any longer. Lincoln’s gaze dropped to the floor and wandered over the pattern in the linoleum, his frantic mind seeking distraction.

“Say something, for Christ’s sake,” Garrett’s mounting frustration erupted from him in an angry hiss. He stepped forward, looming over Lincoln.

Words would do nothing to fix what he had broken, but they were all that Lincoln had. “Garrett…” Lincoln could feel the sting of burgeoning tears nipping at the corners of his eyes. “I made a…” His lip trembled. “I’m so…” Lincoln buried his face in his hands, as his chest heaved with the force of the sob he trapped inside.

“You’re pathetic.” Garrett threw the small trinket onto Lincoln’s bunk.

Lincoln looked up at his friend through bleary, tear-soaked eyes. “Garrett, please…” His chin trembled. “It’s me…” he pleaded. “I’m still your friend.”

Garrett shook his head and stepped back. “Huh,” he said, his tone dismissive and emotionless as he kicked off his boots. “I don’t even fucking know you.” He hauled himself onto his bunk, allowing his weight to settle.

Lincoln’s throat tightened as he felt the threads of his friendship unraveling. “Garrett… pl–”

”Just go to sleep, Charles.”

Charles? Lincoln turned his face into his shoulder, squinting his eyes closed as he felt the sting of Garrett’s words. His hands hung at his sides as he fell, as tattered and broken as their friendship, onto his bunk. As he lay silently staring up at the impression of his friend in the mattress above him, his fingers closed around a small silver coin. Lincoln closed it into his fist and rolled over onto his stomach to bury his teary eyes into his pillow.

~~~ * ~~~

Lincoln sat alone at breakfast, shoving his spoon into the mush of oatmeal in front of him. He’d eaten a spoonful before he began his assault. His appetite was never considerable, but he could barely bring himself to look at food.

He’d seated himself in the corner of the dining hall, in his usual seat, but he was certain the chair next to him would remain empty. He’d not slept. In the hour before dawn, after his confrontation with Garrett, he’d simply thumbed over the coin that now rested heavily in the pocket of his trousers.

The doors to the dining hall swung open and Garrett and a few others from Lincoln’s barracks came flooding into the room, all laughter and smiles. Garrett’s booming laugh was easy enough to pick out. Lincoln watched as they crossed the room.

Tim turned and called over his shoulder. “Neal! Come and join us!” His smile was wide and genuine as he waved him over.

“He’s good there,” Garrett said, flat and even. “Aren’t you, Neal.”

Lincoln’s heart sunk, and so too did his gaze. He nodded weakly, staring down into his cooling breakfast.

As the others ate their fill, Lincoln could hear hints of stories being shared between them. How they’d traveled into the city, how the show had been even better than they expected. If only he’d gone with the others. Everything would be different. He’d be sitting and sharing the same stories, sitting alongside his friend. Instead, he caught Garrett’s steely glances, watched his face wrinkle in disgust. Lincoln looked into the eyes of his dearest friend, and saw a stranger looking back at him.

Lincoln shot up from table, his chair skidding back over the linoleum floor. He gripped the edges of his tray hard, his knuckles turning white; he lifted it from the steel table and slammed it down, splattering cold tea from his mug over his tray and hands.

The conversations of his comrades quieted as they looked over their shoulders at him, every one of them meeting his gaze, all except Garrett.

Lincoln snatched up his tray and placed it on the cart near the door before storming out into the corridor, leaving the large metal door swinging wildly on its hinges. Lincoln’s fingers knotted in his hair as bit down on his lip. He rushed down the hall, rounding the nearest corner and laying his back against the wall.

“God dammit!” he snarled through gritted teeth. He slid down the wall, crouching with his back pressed against cold cinder blocks, his face in his hands. His legs began to cramp and he let his weight drop him to the floor, his feet splaying out in front of him. His hands fell from his eyes, resting lifelessly at his side. His chin rested against his chest, his gaze traveling over the round shape in his pocket.

He raked back the hairs that had flopped down over his forehead with his trembling fingers and then reached into his pocket, pulling out the coin.

The unassuming silver coin was well worn and scratched; Lincoln ran his thumb over the few letters that were still pronounced across its face. His brows knitted as he pulled his knees to his chest, resting his forearms on them and looking at the coin he twisted in his fingers.

~~~ * ~~~

“Garrett, come on!” Lincoln stared up into the dark sky, exasperated. “Do you really need that?” he muttered under his breath.

“As a matter of fact.” Garrett shook the newspaper dispenser. “I do… but the damn thing is even more stubborn than you!” He kicked it as he slapped the side.

Lincoln shook his head at his rather oafish-looking friend. They had arrived in Ottawa late the night before and had spent the day getting their bearings. Lincoln had acquired what he considered to be the essentials – map of the city, transit schedules, food and provisions – including the proper currency. “Well maybe if you hadn’t jammed the wrong coins in there, it would be more willing to give up its spoil,” Lincoln teased, pulling out his pocket knife.

”How was I supposed to know it would discriminate against the U.S. Mint?” Garrett fired back.

Lincoln pried loose the offending dime, shaking his head at his insufferable friend. “Here.” He shoved the coin into Garrett’s open palm. “And if you need the dang paper so bad,” Lincoln drove his hand into his pocket and pulled out the change he had after purchasing the map that was now tucked under his arm, “use this.” He held out a silver 25 cent piece.

Garrett smiled, plucking it from Lincoln’s fingers. “Thanks!” he beamed, flipping the coin and catching it in his palm. He looked down at it, smiling as he thumbed over the raised letters and botanical relief. “But the machine only takes dimes,” Garrett grinned.

“Oh for the love of…” Lincoln groaned, flicking through the coins in his hand. “Here!” He practically threw the dime at his friend. It bounced off of Garrett’s hand and landed among the cobbles.

Garrett laughed, bending down to pick it up from between his feet. “Someone’s got a bit of a temper today,” he prodded.

Lincoln rolled his eyes and jutted out an outstretched palm.

“What?” Garrett asked.

Lincoln drew out a long blink, his face the picture of unamused. “The quarter,” he said, beckoning with curled fingers for its return, looking over his glasses through narrowed eyes.

“Oh. Was it not a gift?” Garrett spun the coin between his thumb and forefinger. He smirked as Lincoln’s shoulders slumped in annoyance. But his teasing smile turned reflective as he stared at it. “Can you believe we’re here?”

”Where? Standing in the middle of an empty sidewalk in a strange city – no closer to our destination than we were three hours ago, I might add – all because you want to read the funnies?” Lincoln rattled off, pulling the map out from under his arm and slapping to his thigh.

“Precisely.” Garrett smiled wide, bunching his cheeks. “No, Lincoln. I mean _here_.” Garrett looked around them, up at the tall buildings and down the long street. “We did it. We just… we made it.”

Lincoln’s features softened as he took in the look of wonder on his friend’s face, watched him look up into the foreign, dark sky. “I can’t believe you came with me.” Lincoln smiled, stepping closer to his friend to look up at the same patch of sky. “Thank you.”

Garrett threw his arm over Lincoln’s shoulder, pulling him close. “Ah, come now. What are friends for?” He reached for the quarter pinched between Lincoln’s fingers. “Here.” Garrett smiled.

Lincoln folded Garrett’s fingers over the coin, and pushed it away with a smile. “Keep it.”

~~~ * ~~~

The now more weathered and worn coin, the coin Garrett rubbed between his fingers before every flight, the coin he nervously flipped during briefings and physicals, the coin that – for all intents and purposes – had become a part of Garret, was now pinched between Lincoln’s fingers. Discarded in disgust.

After two days of cold shoulders and even colder eyes, Lincoln could barely be in the same sky as Garrett. The airwaves between their planes was rarely quiet, especially during training exercises. The others only shook their heads at their buffoonery most days. But things were different now, and Lincoln’s cockpit had become a cold and desolate place; the sky a prison, throwing his loneliness and isolation in his face.

His mind replayed the endless memories the two shared, reminding him of everything he’d lost, over and over. It shoved Julie’s smiling face to the forefront of his consciousness. Images of her shy smile and the whispered memory of her soft touches were like needles in his spine, punishing and brutal. And intermixed with his torturous retrospection, were flashes of heat, of joy, of Rhett. It was all an exhausting play on his mind and a confirmation of every belief he’d ever held about his future. He was never to be happy or fulfilled, certainly not without enormous sacrifice.

He’d sat down with pen in hand more times than he could count. He should have told her long ago. He should have been honest with her, and with himself. But he’d been selfishly optimistic and in the process, stolen away her affections and betrayed her trust.

Endless reams of paper, all crumpled in the dust bin. Each one a letter, all starting with the same: _‘Dearest Julie’_. Each one penned with good intentions. She should know, he had to tell her. But the letters always ended in a scribbled mess. How could he tell her? How _should_ he tell her? ‘I met someone’, ‘I have to confess something.’, ‘I love you, but…’, ‘I’m a hom–’, his pen could not finish the word. Each sentiment made it more and more evident that this was not a conversation for letters.

Sleeping had become a more frightening prospect than battle; in his mind, a battle raged every night. His subconscious was a masochistic tormentor, more sadistic and cruel than even his wakeful mind, hell-bent on his destruction and never sated. Even when his knees were pulled to his chest, his body rocking in his bunk as tears flowed from his eyes, it was hungry for more of what fragments remained. So he laid awake until exhaustion dragged him under.

_**September 4, 1940: RAF Church Fenton, Yorkshire, UK.** _

Lincoln stared at his reflection in a full length mirror. It was ornate, framed in thick wood with a carved relief. The mirror, though beautiful, was otherwise ordinary, or seemingly so. But the reflection that stared back at him was haunting. It moved as he did, but its eyes were dark and sunken, skin ashen and splotched with purple, lips pale and cracked. It took a few moments of study before Lincoln realised that he was looking at death. His own death.

Though his own eyes widened and his mouth fell open, his reflection’s lip curled, exposing sharper teeth than his own. It cocked its head to the side and smirked. Its onyx eyes gleamed as it suddenly lunged forward, letting out a blood curdling scream. The sound was deafening. Lincoln squinted his eyes, covered his ears, but there was no escape from the haunting screech. His eyes shot open as his fist flew forward, shattering the glass, reflective shards driving into his knuckles and flying into the air.

Inside the now empty frame was a hollow and swirling nothingness. His reflected death, now corporeal, stepped into view from the depths of the cold and consuming blackness. It reached through the frame, grabbed him by the hair and dragged him into the darkness.

Lincoln woke with a start, sweating and breathless. His chest heaved, his sweat-slick hands clutching the sheets. His dreams had grown ever more insistent on ripping him apart, but now it seemed it was screaming out for his demise. But no, that would be far too simple. In death there is relief, there is respite and comfort. He would not have – and nor did he deserve – any such comfort.

He was a liar, a cheat, a poor excuse for a friend, and a slave to his salacious desires. He deserved sleepless nights and the cold stares of a once friend. Didn’t he? What he’d done was wrong, wasn’t it?

As his breathing steadied, he threw his legs over the edge of his bunk and snatched his watch off the nightstand, 3:14 am. As good a time as any, he supposed. He would not fall victim to his dreams again this night, so he hauled himself out of his bunk and dragged on his clothes. He shuffled out into the corridor and looked out the wired glass into the surrounding airfield. His eyes settled on the hangar in the distance.

In the darkness, few details could be gleaned, but Lincoln did not need eyes to see Rhett’s face in his mind, or recall the smell of the rain in his hair. It was Wednesday – well technically speaking – though the sun had not yet graced the sky. He was meant to meet Rhett at the Stag tonight. But the thought of it turned his stomach. Though he longed for the comfort of touch, of the warmth of steady hands, and to feel as alive as he had in Rhett’s arms, he couldn’t help the sting of resentment he felt.

Rhett had walked into his life, given him everything he’d ever longed for, and in the process, he’d lost everything he had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys! I am so damn sorry for the LONG-AS-HELL wait. I really hate keeping the story from you! I hope you enjoyed the update!
> 
> Happy Holidays! 
> 
> RTR <3


	11. Yearning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Recommended Listening:**   
>  [Lost Out Here - Samuel Miller](https://youtu.be/Q-vEM1T-64o)   
>  [Mercury - Sleeping At Last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YJsF7sHpaPs)   
>  [Fear - Sleeping At Last](https://youtu.be/F8xDXLrz9fs?list=PLOeC4ZXHIpffNQAsS0i_xNoLFbfZaO4-u)   
> 

_**September 7, 1940: Tadcaster, Yorkshire, UK.** _

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Teddy slammed down his empty pint glass. “I ain’t gonna sit ‘er and watch you mope another minute!” He got up from his stool and leaned on the bar.

The weight of Rhett’s entire upper body rested on his elbows as he swirled the bourbon in his glass, having not yet had a drop.

“Honestly, McLaughlin. I’ve never seen you looking so...” Teddy trailed off.

“Pathetic?” Rhett looked over at him, twirling his glass at the base. It wobbled around until finally coming to rest.

“Your words…” Teddy smirked as Gerald filled the glass in his hand.

Rhett groaned and leaned forward on his folded arms. “What is wrong with me?” he muttered into his elbow.

Teddy chuckled, sipping at the foamy head of his ale.

Gerald wiped the last of the glasses in the basin and placed them on the shelf behind the bar before removing his apron. “No way I could convince either of you layabouts to grab the keg from the cellar, is there?” he gruffed.

Rhett rolled his forehead against his arm for a moment and then looked up at Gerald. He nodded and hopped down from his stool, adjusting his cap. He was glad for the distraction, however brief it might be.

“I’ll help.” Teddy knocked on the bartop a few times and then skipped to Rhett’s side. “Would hate for you to throw out that bum back of yours.” Teddy slapped his hand to the small of Rhett’s back.

Rhett shuffled through the curtain near the stage toward the rear door. Just outside, in the backlot, was the small entrance to the cellar. He threw open the doors and crouched, stooping his shoulders and bending his knees as he climbed down the narrow stairs. “You ever get that feeling that the world isn’t made for you?” Rhett said wryly from the base of the stairs.

“The world suits me just fine,” Teddy winked, hopping down the last step to join him. He adjusted his hat and pulled the chain of the overhead light.

The single yellow bulb did little to illuminate the space, but the shapes of a few kegs and racks were visible through the dank dusty air. The earth was damp underfoot, and the stone walls of the foundation were uneven and crumbling in places.

Rhett kicked a pile of fallen bricks as he lumbered over to the corner where Gerald stored the kegs. “The whole place is liable to fall in on itself. Look at the state of this cellar.” Rhett shook his head, kicking aside more of the rubble.

“Exaggeratin’, like always,” Teddy stepped under the light, his cheeky smile ran the width of his face.

Rhett sighed. “Ya said you came down ‘er to help. So why don’t ya try that on and cut the cheek for once in your life.”

“Someone’s touchy,” Teddy chuckled.

Rhett muttered under his breath. He knew this was Teddy’s attempt to brighten his spirits, but he wasn’t in the mood for it.

Teddy possessed an almost infuriating positivity. He was unflappable; even the war had barely tarnished his shine. So it was rather impossible to experience periods of introspection, or a downturn in your mood, without an attempted cheering by Mr. Burgess.

Rhett walked one of the kegs into an open area of the floor, rocking it from side to side before grabbing one side of the wooden barrel.

“Ya know it’s ‘is loss, yeah?” Teddy grabbed the other rail of the keg.

Rhett stiffened, his hand gripping the splintering wood. Teddy was not one for comforting; he leaned toward teasing and tough love.

Teddy pulled off his hat and scratched the mussed hair on his head. “I rarely see ya wearing a smile unless it’s got somethin’ to do with that lad, at least lately.” Teddy slid his hat back on and slung his thumbs behind his suspenders. “That’s what’s got ya down... ‘im not showing up at the Stag?” He looked down at his feet, toeing the muck underfoot.

Rhett turned to his friend, his lips pressed together in a slight frown as he nodded.

Teddy’s slow nod mirrored Rhett’s. He took a moment, running his tongue over his teeth before he spoke again. “Like I said… ‘is loss.” He stepped closer and hauled on the keg.

Rhett pushed it down with a flat palm. “But why?” Rhett said softly. “Why would he…” he turned away, facing the dark corner. “The other night was… he was…” Rhett’s hunched shoulders began to burn; the low ceiling forcing him into an uncomfortably distorted posture. “I must’ve–”

“Listen, McLaughlin.” Teddy put a hand over his shoulder. “He came ‘ere lookin’ for ya not a week ago; and the two of yas could barely keep from looking at each other the whole night. I’m damn surprised no one else noticed.”

Rhett chuckled a little under his breath, remembering how he’d hid his flushing cheeks behind pints of ale and a bent elbow that night.

Teddy squeezed his hand, fingers digging in just enough to encourage Rhett to turn. “Now I don’t rightly know why he didn’ turn up on Wednesday, but I’m bettin’ it’s got little to do with you.”

Rhett wanted to believe his friend, wished he could allow himself the luxury of letting go of worry, but something wasn’t sitting right with Link’s absence. He’d promised to come, and he didn’t seem like one to break his word. So why had the seat Rhett had saved at the bar for him remained empty that night?

~~~ * ~~~

The Stag was filled to the rafters, smoke and laughter threatening to burst it open at the seams. Rhett was glad of his height on this particular occasion because it meant he could see the door over the crowd.

The Lads had already taken the stage and Teddy fiddled with the tuning knobs on his guitar while the others leaned over one another’s shoulders, talking into ears to be heard over the din of excited patrons – most of them airmen from Church Fenton, though a few locals had managed to belly up to the bar before it flooded with uniforms.

Rhett craned his long neck peering through the drifting wisps of smoke and jostling bodies, but he didn’t recognize any of the smiling faces. He enjoyed playing the Stag, it was a nice change of pace. The Hart and Thistle offered comfortable familiarity, like playing for family by the hearth of a fire. But there was an excitement in playing on the road, playing where you hadn’t yet mapped the way each of your notes would reverberate off the walls. Though, his racing heart and sweating palms could only be partially attributed to the venue.

At any moment Link would come through the doors Rhett couldn’t tear his eyes from, with his lips spread in a wide smile, perfectly crooked in the corner. Rhett’s eyes fluttered closed a moment, allowing him a perfect view of the face he was longing to see. Light eyes set in olive skin, raven hair, and a jawline that called out for the caress of wet lips.

“Oy! Stretch!” Teddy called, pulling Rhett back from his internal ogling.

Rhett’s eyes shot open as he shook away the distracting thoughts.

Teddy leaned into Rhett’s bass. “Somethin on your mind?” He raised a brow. “A uniformed something, perhaps?” he said softly, so only Rhett would hear. He winked, shoving Rhett’s shoulder with the back of his hand, a guitar pick pinched between his fingers.

Rhett’s cheeks flushed and he tucked his face behind the neck of his instrument.

Teddy let out a single loud laugh, tossing back his head. “Just a little focus, McLaughlin. ‘S’all I ask,” he winked.

Rhett rocked the bass on it’s footing, looking into the crowd in front of the stage. A smile crept across his face as he registered a familiar one in the audience. “You’d best be taking your own advice,” Rhett said, tipping his chin.

Teddy turned, his head darting back and forth a moment before he pulled the guitar strap from his shoulder and threw the instrument into its stand. He rushed to the edge of the stage and hopped down into the crowd, wrapping his arms around Valerie and lifting her to his chest. He smiled, wide and true before pressing an excited kiss to her lips.

Rhett could feel the warmth radiating from them. Teddy had done it somehow. Rhett had been so distracted, so caught up in his own affairs that he’d missed how his buffoon of a friend had managed it.

Rhett’s cheeks balled up as Valerie’s skin flushed red. She laid her hand on Teddy’s chest and tipped his hat out of his eyes. The pairing was unexpectedly right, like something that had always been there, even though it shone like a newly minted pence.

The swinging door at the front of the pub pulled Rhett’s attention from the couple at the foot of the stage. His heart leapt to his throat as a group of officers came into view. Teddy’s mate Tim was among them: it was Link’s squadron. Rhett could barely contain the nervous energy building up inside of him. His fingertips buzzed, limbs tingling. He frantically searched for the eyes he’d been waiting for what felt like an eternity to see again.

Rhett spotted Link’s friend. Garrett, was it? Butterflies – as silly as he’d always thought the phrase to be – fluttered in his stomach. He felt light-headed, drunk if he was honest. He was practically hopping with excitement. But as the door swung closed, and the officers settled against the far end of the bar, Rhett’s wide eyes narrowed, and his rounded cheeks evened. Link hadn’t come.

“Let’s give ‘em a show!” Teddy – who had hopped back up to join his band mates – smiled, slapping him hard on his shoulder and a giving him a gentle shake.

Rhett’s forehead wrinkled a moment before he smoothed it over, smiling down at his friend.

Teddy’s eyes were questioning, obvious concern evident in the lingering of his grip on Rhett’s shoulder.

‘I’m okay.’ Rhett mouthed the answer to the question that Teddy never really asked. He pulled his sleeves into the crooks of his elbows and straightened his bass.

Teddy stepped to the front of the stage and called out to the crowd, starting their set as he always did, with a big booming welcome to everyone in the room.

Rhett swallowed his disappointment and positioned his fingers on the strings.

They played through the first half of their set, and as much as Rhett tried not to dwell, he couldn’t keep his eyes from lingering on the door and the smiling faces, of which Link’s should have been a part. The few times the door swung on its hinges and more patrons filed in, Rhett’s breath caught in his throat. But none of the new faces were Link’s.

By the first intermission, Link was nearly an hour late and Rhett resigned himself: Link wasn’t coming. When Rhett rested his bass in the corner and looked out into the crowd, he found a cold pair of eyes staring back.

Garrett was seated at the bar, apart from the others, and watching Rhett intensely. Rhett had only met the man in passing, but he’d seemed friendly enough. Though, the stern brow and downturned mouth that stared up at Rhett from behind a messy sweep of blond hair indicated otherwise. Their eyes locked for a few short moments before Garrett’s turned to the drink in his hand.

Rhett watched him a while longer, his brow knitting as he tried to glean more from the closed off body language of the pilot at the bar. This was someone Link cared for, a close friend and ally. So, naturally, he piqued Rhett’s curiosity. Perhaps their shared melancholy had the same root cause.

Rhett crossed the stage and headed toward the bar. He leaned over the rail and ordered a bourbon from the stocky barkeep. He looked down the bar and watched Teddy smiling with his arm around Valerie, chatting happily with Tim.

The rest of the band were engaged in a lively round of billiards around the poorly lit table in the corner. Rhett took a sip of his drink, turned, and leaned an elbow on the bar. He looked over the crowd at the stage.

“I always thought you lot sounded all right.”

Rhett turned to see Garrett leaning against the bar next to him. “Uh… thanks.” Rhett stuttered, a jolt of surprise stiffening his limbs. 

“Nice to have a bit of a distraction, you know?” Garrett threw back the last of his drink and set the glass down next to him.

Rhett smiled weakly and hummed in agreement. “Getting harder to come by these days, eh?” Rhett spoke the last of his words into his bourbon, the smell of it filling his head.

Garrett stuck his hand in his pocket, wiggling his fingers a moment before his hand settled and his chest heaved a sigh.

“What you’re doing…” Rhett kept his eyes trained ahead. “Volunteering. Fighting.” Rhett brought his glass to his lips. “Thank you,” Rhett said sincerely as he finished his drink.

“There a reason you’re not doing the same?” Garrett asked.

Rhett turned to see Garrett’s jaw clenched tight; there was a harshness to the lines of his face, an anger or something akin. Perhaps resentment, and not unwarranted. Here Garrett was fighting a war for a country that was not his own, only to find a seemingly capable man spending his days in pubs with women and drink.

Garrett kicked the toe of his boot against the leg of the stool next to him.

Rhett drew in a long slow breath. “I was lined up at the recruitment office on the first day…” Rhett spoke slowly, recalling the day with stunning clarity. “I didn’t make it past the physical.”

Garrett’s brow arched, his head tipping to the side.

Rhett lifted his cap and ran a hand through his hair. “ _Your gross height has resulted in herniated discs that have deviated the alignment of your spine, Mr. McLaughlin. You are unfit for active duty._ ” Rhett mocked. “Now, I’m no expert, but I think that’s doctor for: your back’s a right mess. Move along,” Rhett sighed, turning to nod at Garrett with his lips pressed together as he nudged Garrett’s elbow with his own.

A soft huff of amusement escaped through Garrett’s nose as he smoothed jacket with his hand. “Too bad you can’t cheat on an x-ray,” Garrett smirked for a brief moment before looking down at his feet, brow wrinkling, eyes darting.

There it was, the inscrutable expression Rhett had seen before. “Something wrong?” Rhett asked, leaning a little closer.

Garrett’s shoulders squared as his gaze shot up, looking past Rhett at the door. “Sorry, but I have to go.” He brushed past Rhett, squeezing through the crowd and barreling out the door.

Rhett reached after him; he had more he was hoping to ask, to learn. His shoulders sagged. As Garrett walked out, so to did any real chance of him discerning why Link had been absent. “Dammit.”

~~~ * ~~~

“Should’ve just asked the lad about where he was.” Teddy said simply.

Rhett shook his head in annoyance. “Aye. If only I had your charm, wit, and confidence.” Rhett teased, mocking with sizeable cheek.

“Again. Your words,” Teddy winked.

Rhett sighed, chewing his lip. “I’ve just got this rotten feelin’ in the pit of my stomach, ya know? Like there’s more to it.” Rhett grabbed hold of the keg once again.

Teddy smiled. “I’ve said it before…” Teddy hauled up on the other side of the wooden barrel, “and I’m not one for repeatin’ nicities, so listen up.” Teddy raised his brow. “That boy’s smitten… an’ so are you,” he winked.

Together, they carried the keg, that – by Rhett’s estimation – was nearing the end of its serviceable career, up the stairs and into the pub.

“I thought the two of yas got lost down there,” Gerald called to them, throwing the cloth he used to wipe down the bar over his shoulder.

“This one damn near talked my ear off,” Teddy grunted, heaving on the keg and nodding in Rhett’s direction.

“Mmmhmm,” Gerald squinted. “Last I’d checked, Rhett wasn’t the one with the flappin’ gums, between the two of ya.” Gerald stepped out from behind the bar and grabbed hold of the keg, taking its full weight in his well-practiced hands.

Rhett pushed back a few hairs that peeked out under the brim of his hat with the back of his arm. He leaned closer to Teddy. “He’s got a way of makin’ ya feel a bit inadequate, eh?” Rhett nudged him with an elbow, a smile on his face.

“Speak for yourself, stretch.” Teddy’s brows quirked up, his wry smile rounding one of his cheeks. He walked over and took a seat.

Rhett rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he followed after his friend. “What did I say about the cheek?” Rhett teased as he pulled out his stool and flopped onto it.

They shared a short laugh and Rhett had to admit that he’d not felt this light in days. Teddy had succeeded in distracting him from his analytical introspection, worry, and theorizing. “Teddy?” Rhett asked, trying to sound as sincere as he felt.

“Hmm?” Teddy asked, turning on his stool.

“Thanks,” Rhett said simply.

Teddy’s smile grew slowly, and it carried with it the same nearly insufferable charm that it always had and always would. “You’re wel–”

Rhett’s eyes widened as a wave of terror left goosebumps in its wake on his skin. In the distance, the first hints of a familiar but utterly terrifying wail: the warning sirens from the base. He shot up from his stool, his hands gripping the bar as the siren grew louder, howling out its warning cry. Rhett stood frozen in place. He’d not heard the chilling sound come without an accompanying notice posted in the village: just a drill, a test, training. But this? This was no drill. Rhett stared down at his hands, his knuckles turning white from the force of his grip. His heart raced, his limbs tingling with panic. Link.

Rhett kicked the stool out from behind him, knocking it to the floor, stumbling a moment on his unsteady legs.

“Rhett.” Teddy grabbed his shoulder. His rounded brows framed worried eyes. He shook his head, his grip tightening.

Rhett pulled away, stumbling backward toward the door, muttering under his breath. “I have to go... I need to… I... He…” The heel of Rhett’s shoe caught on an uneven floorboard and he fell back against the door. His fumbling hand searched for the door handle. He turned the knob and tumbled into the street.

“Rhett! Wait!” Teddy called, rushing out through the door after him.

Rhett shielded his eyes from the glaring rays of the mid-afternoon sun with his forearm. The siren had grown louder, blaring in the open air, the unsettling sound throwing him off balance. He tripped over the curb, stumbling before finding his footing, however unsteady it was.

“Rhett, you can’t!” Teddy ran to him, grabbing his arm. “You’ll never make it.”

“I have to try!” Rhett pulled his arm free, glaring at his friend.

“Rhett…” Teddy pleaded with a raised brow.

Rhett turned away, making it only a few steps before his feet dragged to a stop, his hands hanging limply at his side. Teddy was right, he’d never make it. The siren was a call to action. Link was probably already pulling on his flight suit. He’d be running for his plane, climbing into the cockpit and firing up the engine. He’d be in the air soon, flying through the clouds overhead, flying into a nightmare.

Rhett buried his face in his hands, his knees giving out under his weight as he collapsed onto the cobbles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love to each of you! I appreciate you more than you know. <3


	12. Closing Ranks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Recommended Listening:**   
>  [Little Heart - Amarante](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cn8tZ6SLGSc)   
>  [The Wisp Sings - Winter Aid](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TOsJasWO_Jc)   
>  [Graveyard Whistling - Nothing But Thieves](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DCCAEcuOk_g)   
> 

_**September 7, 1940: RAF Church Fenton, Yorkshire, UK.** _

Another morning, another silent line-up at the foot of a bunk, another cold bowl of porridge after a restless night’s sleep. Through weary eyes, Lincoln looked down at the pages of the notebook on the mess hall table. The scribbled words did not form eloquent prose or meaningful poetry. They were disjointed, muddled thoughts, many of which he’d penned in the darkness of the barracks when sleep did not come. The pen pinched between his fingers was of some comfort. It had been Dr. Claybourne’s, given to Lincoln when he’d began his work for the eccentric professor.

It was worn in places, settling into the curves of his fingers, nestling between his knuckles. The fountain pen was probably older than he was. It leaked from time to time, staining his fingers and leaving behind splotches of ink among his words, unintended punctuation, revealing his hesitation. He had to fill it more often than he used to, but he didn’t mind. The few extra cents the ink cost him were well worth the familiar feel of it in his hand; the perfectly unreliable pen was damn near the only constant in his life.

Lincoln held the tip of the pen to the smooth page, watching as the ink flooded into the depression under the point, a pool of indigo creeping through the fibres, spreading outward, fraying at the edges. He let the ink spill into the page as his eyes traveled over some of the words he’d written over the last week:

_If I sleep I might dream. I might dream of you. I might hear your voice, feel your hands and lips. I might smile. I might see you. I might see myself._

_I might see what I’ve been running from for longer than I can remember. It might catch me. I might get swallowed in the darkness. I might hear her cry. I might feel that hate. I might reach for you in the nothingness._

_I’m alone. There’s nothing left. No one there. Dreams. Nightmares. Alone._

Lincoln laid the pen down, closing his eyes. He didn’t remember penning the last few words. They were scratched into the page in earnest, scrawled in the throes of a pathetic excuse for sleep. He brushed the pen onto the table with the back of his hand and flipped back through weeks entries. He caught flashes of words as he thumbed back through his own torment in ink. _‘My fault’, ‘I should have told her’, ‘Never the same’, ‘Were we ever friends?”, ‘I might die here’, ‘Never see him again’._ As the last day’s page flipped past the ridges of his thumb print, the hard scratch of his pen – one dug into the page as a startled reaction – stared up at him.

~~~ * ~~~

The barracks were empty. The lamplight next to his bunk was dim, the bulb worn and flickering, but its filament gave off enough light to brighten the pages of Lincoln’s journal. He looked over at the small clock sitting next to the old metal fixture, its face obscured in the shadow it cast. It was midnight. They’d be playing the last half of their set by now. The pub would be full of sound, Rhett’s fingers pulling strings, his smiling eyes looking out into the crowd where Lincoln wasn’t standing.

Lincoln squeezed the pen between his fingers and scrawled out a few lines. _‘I wanted to be there. I wanted to see you. I didn’t mean to lie. I’m sorry, Rhett’_ He sighed as his pen crossed the t’s of Rhett’s name. He fell back on his pillow, laying his journal across his chest. He closed his eyes and let himself drift. Images of The Stag flashing in his mind, the sounds of thick strings reverberated in his ears before the full sound of the Lad’s cheerful music flooded through him. A smile quirked the corner of his mouth.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you sleeping under a book.”

Lincoln jolted upright, his pen digging a hard line into the page, his journal falling to his side. The music in his mind came to an abrupt halt. In the space between his bunk and the next, Garrett stood looking down at him.

Garrett smiled weakly before sitting down on the adjacent bed and folding his hands together, lacing his fingers. He rested his elbows on his knees, eyes trained on the floor.

The shock had rendered Lincoln silent. He’d not heard Garrett enter and wasn’t expecting him back so soon anyhow, since he’d gone with the others to The Stag. Lincoln had bet on Garrett stumbling in with the others, loose with drink and hauling himself up into his bunk without a word spoken, to be as distant as he had been since Lincoln had pleaded for his understanding in the exact place they sat now. But this Garrett was familiar, there was a warmth in his voice. This was the Garrett that had snuck into their Harvard dormitory after a night out – a night where Lincoln had stayed behind, hunched over at his desk penning an essay – to find Lincoln had fallen exhausted into the pages of his texts. Lincoln couldn’t recall exactly how many times he’d been startled awake by a kick to the leg of his chair and a teasing jab from his friend, but it was considerable and the thought alone was of comfort.

Garrett’s shoulders were rolled forward; he stretched his fingers, popping a few knuckles and drawing in a deep breath before he spoke again. “I’m sorry.”

The tightness in Lincoln’s throat pulled the breath from his lungs. He pushed his journal under his pillow and swung his legs over the side of his bunk, facing his friend. He tried to swallow around the knot that was working its way up behind his tongue, but succeeded only in forcing the sensation to spread, causing his ears to tingle and his eyes to burn with the threat of tears.

Garrett rubbed his palms together and then pressed them into his thighs, sitting tall, his eyes meeting Lincoln’s for the first time in days. “Do you remember that first night in Ottawa?”

Lincoln felt the weight of the coin he’d been carrying in his pocket since Garrett had practically thrown it in his face. “I… I do.” Lincoln’s voiced stuttered from his lips.

”Huh,” Garrett’s flashed a quick smile for just a moment before his brow knitted and his gaze shifted back to the floor. “I think I let myself forget… when I…” Garrett ran his hand through his hanging blond hair. “He’s funny, you know.”

Lincoln’s head cocked to the side. Who? Was he talking about–

“I wanted to hate him… and I suppose in a way I do,” Garrett laughed. “I wanted him to give me a reason… a reason to have been so hateful.” Garrett chewed his lower lip a moment before continuing. “Turns out _I’m_ the asshole,” he smirked.

Lincoln’s head swam, his pulse quickening. His worlds were colliding. “You… you spoke to him?”

Garrett nodded. “I hadn’t planned to. It just happened.” Garrett stood and leaned against one of the bedposts.

Lincoln pulled off his glasses and held the arm between his teeth, chewing at the end that was deformed from the habit. He had so many questions, but couldn’t bring a single one to his lips.

“What I said… what I did… it was wrong.” Garrett turned to him. “The way I treated you…”

Lincoln pushed himself up from the hard mattress, slipping his glasses back onto his nose. “Garrett… don’t. It’s…” Lincoln reached into his pocket, his fingers closing over the coin he found there. “I was just… I don’t think I can do this without you.” Lincoln squinted his eyes. “Friends?” He reached out his hand, the coin resting in his palm, the drumming in his chest steadier than it had been for some time.

Garrett smiled, but his jaw was clenched tight as he turned his face away. “Lincoln…”

The smile slipped from Lincoln’s features, his hand falling to his side, coin enclosed.

Garrett brought his hand to his chin, running the pads of his fingers over his jawline.

“Garrett?” Lincoln asked, voice quivering. “What’s–”

“I told her.”

Lincoln stumbled backward a step. “You… you wha...”

“I wrote to her,” Garrett turned away, busying his hands, running fingers over fingers. “I was so angry and…” He stepped out from between the beds into the darkness in the middle of the room. “It wasn’t my place… I know that now, but…”

Lincoln was dumbfounded and numb, relief fading, replaced by the beginnings of anger. Garrett had done what he couldn’t. He’d penned the words that Lincoln had spent sleepless nights pondering and scrubbing out with a scratch of his pen, but in doing so, he’d stolen Lincoln’s right to deliver the news by his own hand. The wounds of the truth would cut deep no matter the source, but she’d deserved to hear it from him. He owed her the truth, and instead that truth would come from someone else.

“The next morning… I wrote it in such anger… I had to… She...”

As he watched Garrett struggle to explain himself, watched his brow wrinkle and his eyes narrow in pain, Lincoln felt a realization wash over him in a tingling wave. In his mind’s eye he replayed small memories, recalled subtle gestures and quick glances, careful smiles and flushing cheeks. All of it coalescing into a certainty that he’d somehow managed to ignore. Garrett’s words from a week earlier sounded in his head.

_‘She deserves better than you… I could have…’_

“You’re in love with her… aren’t you?” Lincoln asked, taking a step toward him.

Garrett drew in a ragged breath and dug his fingers into the hair on the back of his head.

“You are… aren’t you?” Lincoln’s voice had a sharp edge.

“Lincoln… I tried to stop it. I…” Garrett stammered, struggling to find his voice.

Lincoln knew that he had no right to the possessive thoughts that raced through his mind. He’d thrown away his right to her affection, hadn’t he? His disrespect of their bond, his indulgence in the flesh of another, left him without an inch of ground to stand on. And yet, Garrett’s admission stung like the lash of a whip.

“I… she knew… I… I kissed her.”

“You what!?” Lincoln’s mouth hung open as he clenched his fist, the coin digging into his palm.

Garrett stepped closer, but Lincoln backed away. “She stopped me… In fact, she slapped me.” Garrett cupped his cheek with his hand. “It just… I couldn’t help myself. She was smiling up at me and I just–”

“Just stop.” Lincoln held up an open palm, biting down on his lower lip. “I thought my secret was like a poison.” Lincoln’s voice was low and steady, but there was an anger in it that was unfamiliar to his ears. “I punished myself… laid awake because I was keeping something from you… and all the while…”

“Lincoln, I’m so–”

“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry again.” Lincoln slipped the coin back into his pocket and stepped into Garrett’s space, shoving him backward. “You had no right!” He shoved Garrett again. “No right to touch her.” Another hard shove.

Garrett did nothing to prevent it. He simply steadied himself, letting Lincoln push him along the row of bunks.

“No right to reveal _my_ secrets.” Lincoln felt his eyes sting as his vision began to blur. “To judge me.”

Garrett backed up into the wall near the door as Lincoln stepped between his toes.

“No right to talk to him.” Lincoln hissed.

Garrett swallowed and turned his cheek to Lincoln, closing his eyes.

“You knew what you’d done… you knew and you still...” Lincoln stepped back. “I might have made a mistake, but at least I’m not a hypocrite.” Lincoln sidestepped him and shoved through the door into the dark hallway.

~~~ * ~~~

Lincoln slammed the journal closed, shaking the table and quieting the conversations around him.

Garrett’s eyes found his from across the dining hall, but Lincoln looked away. He wished he could go back, to take back each shove and jabbing remark. He’d let his anger and confusion rule. Who was he to act as though Julie’s honour was his to defend? He was a cheat and a liar. Garrett was right: she deserved better, and Garrett was better. He was what she’d probably wished Lincoln could be. He was devoted and loyal, loving and true. He may have kept his indiscretion from Lincoln, but with the intent of protecting his friend. Lincoln had held onto his own out of cowardice. Self-preservation. Weakness.

Garrett had forgiven him, and instead of welcoming back the friendship he’d thought he had lost for good, he’d spat it back in Garrett’s face. _At least I’m not a hypocrite._ He scoffed at his own words, repeating in his head. He could think of no truer example of hypocrisy than his own bull-headed show of ignorance.

He let his head fall back, staring up at the water stained ceiling tiles, the seams between them spreading with age, in need of repair. With intervention they'd hold, with work they'd hold. He had to make this right. He was going to make things right. He would write to Julie. He would apologize, for whatever that might be worth. He would free her from the burden of him. She could find happiness with another… with Garrett if it would please her. He wanted nothing more than her happiness, something he had never, and could never, truly offer her.

He would fix things with his best friend, or he would weary himself trying. Their friendship was one he would grovel for, one worthy of tattered knees and pleadings. Of everything else, he was uncertain; what awaited him back in the States he could only guess. He knew only what was absolutely certain: that he needed Garrett to survive this mess, and that he’d been forever altered by a man he may well be falling in love with.

Rhett was a wild card, changing the nature of Lincoln’s familiar game. He’d spent his whole life pretending, playing a role, being what he should be – what he was raised to be. But it wasn’t a game anymore, and he couldn’t pretend anymore. What he felt for Rhett was _real_. Lincoln had to see him. He would surprise him again, apologize for missing the show. He’d borrow Tim’s motorcycle. He’d go tonight. But he had fences to mend here first.

Lincoln sat tall in his chair, shoving it back from the table, his determination steeling his resolve.

Garrett looked over Tim’s shoulder at Lincoln, his brows creased in confusion.

Lincoln stood but a flash of movement in the hall outside the dining hall caught his eye. Someone running, panic. Lincoln’s eyes darted to his friend as the bell hanging on the wall over his head rang out with deafening force. The howl of the base sirens followed suit.

Chairs skidded, screeching across the linoleum floor, voices calling out from across the room. They’d trained for this, drill after drill, but this was different. Instead of rolling eyes and lazy feet, there were panicked faces and commotion. Waving arms and hollered commands replaced the usual laughter and playful jabs. The alarms Lincoln had once thought an irritation screamed out a terrifying reminder of their true purpose.

Lincoln peered through the crowd, trying to pick Garrett out from among the jostling bodies when he felt a hand on his elbow.

“Come on!” Garrett hauled him by the arm, pushing through the confusion and nervous energy between them and the door, heading in the direction of their equipment lockers.

Lincoln could barely keep his feet under him, the shock had him tingling from head to toe. He cleared his throat, shaking loose the knot there. “Garrett.. I–”

“I know.”

“But I need to–”

“No, you don’t.” Garrett clapped his hand over Lincoln’s shoulder. “Friends?” He held out the other in offer.

Lincoln took Garrett’s hand in his own. “Friends.” He shook, holding it tight. “Brothers.”

Garrett smiled, giving Lincoln’s hand a firm squeeze before letting it go.

“Get suited up!” Tim called, pushing past them and jogging down the hall. “The call’s come in over London. The Luftwaffe are crossing the channel!”

Lincoln felt his heart leap into his throat; his limbs tingled as his mouth went dry.

Garrett took off after Tim and the others, calling to Lincoln over his shoulder. “Let’s go!”

Lincoln gathered himself, drawing a lungful of air into his tight chest before following after his squadron.

They crossed the threshold into the dressing room near their sleeping quarters and headed for their lockers. They all dressed silently, pulling on their boots and flight suits. Lincoln hauled the sleeves on over his shoulders and pinched the zipper pull between his trembling fingers. He was an adept pilot, receiving commendations and accolades, but this was different – this was it, this wasn’t a training exercise, a drill being scored. He would be aiming his guns at the enemy for the first time, so it made sense that his hands were as unsteady, his knees just as weak as they’d been before his first flight.

Garrett zipped himself into his own flight suit, pulled on his life vest and respirator, and turned to Lincoln. “It’s okay, Lincoln.” He grabbed Lincoln’s upper arm, giving it a firm and comforting squeeze. “Everything’s going to be alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to each one of you for your support through this process. Your comments and kudos are appreciated more than you will ever know! <3
> 
>  **Art for This Chapter:**  
>  By: Magicbubblepipe  
> [Lincoln in his flight helmet](http://magicbubblepipe.tumblr.com/post/164072160905/remembertherandler-my-hand-slipped)


	13. Brothers in Arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Recommended Listening:**   
>  [Fade Out - Radiohead](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LCJblaUkkfc)   
>  [The War - SYML](https://youtu.be/Wy_XQH9Jtuk)   
>  [Help Me - Low Roar](https://youtu.be/cN_5GGIihP0)   
>  [A Long Flight - Wintersleep](https://youtu.be/fC2oyeVMo3s)

_**September 7, 1940: RAF Church Fenton, Yorkshire, UK.** _

The air smelled of fuel and adrenaline: the scent of it was hair-raising, electrifying. Excitement and terror flooded through veins and pounding hearts, radiating out to the tips of fingers and toes. Warm streaks of sunshine danced over blades of blowing grass and the backs of flight suits as the men wearing them ran toward their planes. A few engines roared to life in the distance, the rumble mingling with sirens and alarms. Lincoln jogged alongside Garrett, adjusting the strap of his helmet and securing it over his ears, buckling it under his chin.

The steel bodies of the 71st squadron’s planes gleamed from their place along the hangar across the field. Tim called out to them over his shoulder. “Remember what I said!” He cupped his mouth. “Stay in the finger-four formation until I give the command. Don’t break.” He jogged backward, facing them as he gave a final nod and ducked off to his plane, the first one in line. The others followed suit, each of them hopping up on the wings and settling into their respective cockpits until only Lincoln and Garrett remained jogging down the line.

Around them planes were already preparing to take flight. Engines running, wheels approaching the end of the airstrip. Lincoln’s heart pounded in his ears; he was breathless – not from the exertion of the short run, they’d trained for that. No, this was brought on by shallow drawn breath and panicked, runaway thoughts. Shaking his head, he gripped more firmly to control column. This is why he’d come, wasn’t it? He wasn’t here to play, to fly drills and read headlines – reports from the front lines – while he sat in his bunk. He also hadn’t come with the intention of falling headfirst into the mess of his long-denied feelings and deepest secrets either. It was all a distraction, wasn’t it?

Lincoln’s eyes fluttered closed, his feet still carrying him forward. Rhett was more than the feeling of an affectionate body pressed to his. Rhett’s open heart and cheerful soul warmed the hands that had caressed Lincoln’s body, and the lips that had wet Lincoln’s own, the heat of it melting the ice around his heart, revealing the true depth of love and life. This fight was purpose. This was why he’d come. But Rhett had shown him why it really mattered, why life was worth living and protecting. Distraction? Perhaps inspiration was nearer the truth.

“Lincoln!” Garrett yelled over the din of engines sputtering to life, grabbing hold of Lincoln’s arm, pulling Lincoln’s mind back from is brief wander.

Shaking his head, Lincoln blinked his friend into focus. Garrett’s mouth was curved in a soft smile; he carried his flight helmet under his arm, leaving his blond hair to blow across his forehead. His cheeks rounded, his smile creeping to his eyes, wrinkling them at their corners.

“You ready?” Garrett nodded, clapping his hand to Lincoln’s shoulder.

Lincoln’s smiled back, a lopsided quirk of the lip as he huffed out through his nose. “Born ready.”

Garrett gave him a quick squeeze while Lincoln reached up and scruffed the blond hair on his head. Garrett shoved his hand away and jabbed at his ribs.

As their jittery hands and laughter stilled, Lincoln nodded slowly, slapping his hand over Garrett’s upper arm. There were a million things he wanted to say: to ask him if he was as afraid as he was, to tell him how much it meant that he was here – that they were doing this together – to thank him.

Garrett leaned in and spoke into Lincoln’s ear so as to be heard over the roaring engines of their squadron’s planes coming to life. “The sky’s waiting, Lincoln. Let’s fill ‘er with wings.” Garrett stepped back and pulled on his helmet, flashing Lincoln a wink.

Though anxiety wormed its way into Lincoln – manifesting in a thudding pulse and a fluttering stomach – the excitement in the air rippled like waves, an eclipsing force that brought a smile to his lips as Garrett backed away from him with a skip in his step.

They climbed into the steel seats of their planes, adjusting dials and fastening belts. Lincoln primed the engine with a few quick presses of the pad of his thumb and flipped up the cover of the ignition. He pushed in the key, holding it in place as he looked out through the dome of glass at Garrett. “Come on old girl, we’ve got work to do.” He turned the key.

All around him, wheels lifted from the earth, tucking up inside steel frames. A member of the ground crew looked up at Lincoln, waiting for the nod, the signal.

Lincoln’s thudding heart caused his voice to falter as he called out the command. “Crank it!” He pulled the canopy over the pit of his plane and watched as the propeller whirled to life. He gave a quick salute with two fingers and, moments later, took to the air behind the others.

The sky was a brilliant blue, clouds softly drifting across it as if they’d been painted – perfect white wisps. As Lincoln flew ever higher – falling into formation with the others – the fields of Yorkshire’s countryside shrunk under his wings, a patchwork of browns, golds, and greens passing beneath him. Crops harvested and grounds tilled under in preparation for the winter that nipped at the heels of autumn.

The wonder of flight was as novel as it had been the first time his wheels had left the earth. The speed and power cutting through the sky, all of it under his control. It was everything Lincoln had imagined as a child, arms playfully soaring over wheat fields. It was all of that and so much more. Not only because he’d never felt more at home than he did with the clouds cradling his wings, but because it was more than flying – especially now. It was where he was meant to be, what he was meant to be, who he was meant to be. It was right.

Lincoln smiled, a warmth rolling through him as he looked out over his wings at the others. Lincoln and Garrett flew in the Blue team of their squadron, the rightmost flight team, behind Tim – who led them through the clouds, their squadron leader, Red 1.

 ** _“Red 1 calling Flight Leaders.”_** Tim’s voice crackled through Lincoln’s headset.

Lincoln had been following in formation without realizing that they were nearing their target; only a few miles separated them from the southwestern coast. The Luftwaffe had launched their attack on London from across the English Channel, coming at them from several strongholds in mainland Europe. Dunkirk, a French coastal city across that channel, had been occupied by German forces since mid-summer. RAF reconnaissance flights had determined it was being used as a staging area, bomber after bomber arriving; the numbers were staggering and an attack like this had been brewing for some time. Only a few short miles of cold, choppy water separated England and her capital city from the German threat.

_**“We’re to drop to seventy six hundred meters after we pass over the mouth of the Thames.”**_

**_“Red one, this is Blue one. Roger that.”_ **

**_“Yellow one. Roger.”_ **

Though the cockpit of his plane was crowded, and his range of motion limited by his helmet and gear, Lincoln turned to catch a glimpse of his friend soaring alongside him. Garrett was the Blue flight leader’s wingman, while Lincoln was the Blue element lead with his own wingman flying at his side. Garrett had chuckled at their assignments when they’d first been doled out after a few weeks of training.

_“Isn’t that always the way, you charging in with your bull head while I watch your back.”_

In the airfields outside of Ottawa it had been just that way, Garrett flying as Lincoln’s wingman. But when they’d arrived at Church Fenton, Tim had grown tired of their aerial shenanigans rather quickly and split the pair, though he’d been generous enough to allow them to remain within the same flight team. It had resulted in quieter airwaves and a little less tomfoolery, and Lincoln had to admit that he’d become a more disciplined pilot as a result.

As their squadron approached the coastline, the smoldering expanse of London came into view. They weren’t close enough to see the toppled bricks of buildings, or hear the cries of those trapped within them, but the columns of dark smoke and the ardent licks of red and orange flames were all Lincoln needed to see. A roiling cauldron of rage boiled up within him and his knuckles whitened on the control column. This menace, fueled by hate and ignorance, was spreading further every day. The headlines and black and white grainy images in the papers could never capture the true reality of this conflict. They could never print the smell of petrol and smoke, gunpowder and blood. This war had been knocking on England’s door, but today it had kicked it in.

Tim led the squadron’s formation as they began to descend, passing over the Thames and heading for shoreline of Kent. The southern county was dotted with small villages, separated by vast expanses of fields, more than Lincoln would dare hazard to count. These fields and villages held the families that had fled London, seeking solace in gentle green slopes. As they approached the skies over Canterbury, the air seemed to shift, the salty breeze pushing up under Lincoln’s wings.

He corrected, adjusting his tail flaps with the pedals under his feet, holding strong to the steering column. He looked down at the array of switches and dials, checking his readings, giving them more than the usual cursory glance. When he sat strapped into the pilot’s seat, he’d always felt a profound and intangible connection, like the plane was an extension of himself. As a result, he usually allowed his instinct and intuition rule, feeling the pitch and yaw of the plane, how the rudder adjustments shifted when the fuel tanks were running low. But the nerves rolling through him – prickling the skin on the back of his neck – had him relying in the gauges and dials. He muttered out the altimeter readings and fuel pressure under his breath.

 ** _“Keep your heads on a swivel. There have been reports of bombers coming in from all over Kent.”_** Tim’s usually steady voice shuddered. _**“Yellow team, I want you on the bombers. Blue team keep an eye out for fighters.”**_

The 71st squadron had been called upon to meet the second run of German bombers making their way across the Channel to take another run over London. No one had been able to offer them a clear estimate of the size of the German threat, but the RAF’s resistance was measurable. There were more planes in the air than Lincoln had ever thought imaginable. The planes to his left flying wingtip to wingtip. It was awe inspiring and utterly overwhelming.

To Lincoln’s right, a fleet of Hawker Hurricanes called in from RAF Warmwell. To his left, more Spitfires and even a few Boulton Paul Defiants. The RAF was rallying the troops from all over England. The Germans had been bombing airfields for months, military targets. But this? This blatant and outright attack on a civilian target? It was new, shocking. It had stilled the air in Lincoln’s lungs when Tim had lined them up in the dressing room and detailed the cause of the alarm. It was retaliatory: bad weather and even worse luck a few weeks earlier had landed several RAF bombs intended for industrial and commercial targets among the streets of Berlin, resulting in civilian casualties - and Hitler’s ire.

Lincoln shuddered. Innocent people were dying, and not just here on British soil. He was determined to do what little he could with the two guns mounted to his plane. He looked from his dash down at the expansive countryside disappearing in the distance, the Channel coming into view.

As they approached the coast, the clouds grew thicker, building over the cool water. The sun tucked behind them, only small patches of vivid blue sky managed to peek through. Lincoln squinted his eyes as a drifting mass of clouds dead ahead darkened like a thunderhead. He tilted his head to the side and watched as a pair of German Messerschmitt bf 109 fighters punched through the clouds, followed by their wingmen.

This is it. Lincoln’s fingertips buzzed with adrenaline; the sound of his heart pounding in his ears nearly drowned out the radio call.

_**“This is Blue Leader. We’re climbing to engage.”** _

The squadrons peeled apart, Red and Yellow teams veering off in search of the bombers the swarm of fighters were undoubtedly protecting.

_**“Neal. You and Fairfax nail down positions 3 and 4. Evans, follow me!”** _

“Copy that.” Lincoln nodded. Though they were far from alone in the sky, he tried to focus: his squadron, his flight team.

 _ **“Aim true, Lincoln.”**_ Lincoln could hear the smile in Garrett’s voice.

“Have you ever known me to miss?” Lincoln smirked, excitement and anticipation briefly eclipsing fear.

Just a small laugh, and Garrett and peeled away with flight leader Thompson.

Lincoln tipped his wings and lead the charge forward. The Germans fighters flew in the same finger-four formation, one they’d adopted during the Spanish Civil War several years earlier. It was a change in tactic for the RAF, and only certain squadrons had adopted it over the usual victory formation, but it allowed for flight teams to split into pairs and offer better coverage when taking enemy fire.

The sound of machine gun fire filled the air, bullets flying past his wings, glancing blows on armoured plates. Fairfax laid down cover fire as Lincoln angled his wings out of the German fighter’s sights.

Lincoln circled around, climbing higher and approaching the German formation from above as a spray of Fairfax’s bullets took out the Germans’ element wingman. “Nice shooting, Kirk!” Lincoln narrowed his sights on the element leader, the pilot who flew his same position. His thumb hesitated over the button, quivering for only a moment before committing to his role in all of this.

“Hammer down!” he called out as he let off a stream of rounds from the twin browning machine guns mounted on his wings, not letting up until the engine of the 109 blew apart the nose of the plane, smoke billowing out as it plummeted from the sky.

Through the fray, Lincoln watched as Garrett took out the last remaining fighter in the flight team as Tim and the rest his flight team circled back.

Ground Control sounded in their headsets, coordinates and positions.

 _ **“More just ahead. Bombers and fighters. Push them back! Get them over water!”**_ Tim cried over the radio as gunfire began echoing through the air and airwaves alike.

Back in formation, they pressed forward, passing over Dover through the thick bank of clouds. As the last of them drifted by Lincoln’s canopy, the skies opened up to swirling mess of metal and noise. Planes whirled past, some rattling off rounds, others whose armour deflected raining bullets. Above him a Hurricane careened out of control emitting plumes of black smoke, falling from the sky. The scope of the mayhem was immense and disorienting. Explosions rang out as the Luftwaffe’s bombers came under fire, their lethal payload exploding, blinding and hot. It was unlike anything Lincoln had ever seen or imagined, the chaos of it all rivaled only by his most terrifying nightmares.

_**“Get on those 109s! Break that formation!”**_ Tim’s plane shot by, guns firing. 

Lincoln’s eyes darted across the fray in search of the target Tim had called out. Though most formations had long since disintegrated, leaving single planes pursuing another, well thought out plans abandoned in the ensuing dogfight, a squadron of 109s flew tight together protecting a band of bombers at their tails.

The yellow-nosed Messerschmitts had sharper lines than the British Spitfires, their wings squared off at the ends while the Spitfires sported a gentle curve. The planes suited their enemy, harsh and blunt. They flew ever closer, like a swarm of hornets ready to sting, formidable and unforgiving.

_**“There’s too many!”** _

_**“I can’t seem them!”** _

_**“Where is Peters!?"** _

_**“I’m coming ‘round!”** _

The voices jumbled in Lincoln’s headset, he nearly ripped them from his ears to clear his head, to free himself of the panic, of the frantic voices rattling around in his head. Just as he felt he may scream, Tim’s voice came through, clear and calm.

 _ **“Don’t shout all at once!"**_ Tim, ever steady, silenced the airwaves. _**”Blue team, come around on them, Yellow Leader you’ll need to outflank them if we’ve got any chance. We’ll take position over the bombers.”**_

 _ **“We’re on it!”**_ Garrett’s familiar voice cut through, confident and focused.

A chorus of affirmative replies followed and they were off.

Lincoln’s hands steadied. The explicit directive had restored purpose, solidifying his focus, the terror of it all fueling determination. He soared across the carnage, his wings slicing the air as they’d been designed to do; the MK 1s handled like nothing else he’d ever flown. Though Lincoln piloted one of the more battered among the squadron, the planes were a marvel of aviation. They handled like a dream, responsive and yielding to their pilots.

 _ **“I’ve got your six, Neal. Take ‘em out!"**_ Kirk Fairfax was one of the most talented wingmen at Church Fenton, level-headed and brave. He’d trained elsewhere, but Lincoln and Garrett had met him on the trip over to the UK. A potato farmer’s son from Idaho, he flew a crop duster back home, before he hopped the border to join the fight, trading pesticide for copper-tipped bullets.

Lincoln turned away from the target formation, circling around and angling his wings as he made his approach, flying just above the enemy. He fixed his sights on the first plane at the rear of the formation; he would make a pass, laying down a line of fire over several planes, and if he was lucky he’d down one. He pressed down on the trigger, watching the bullets rip a line across the side panels of four planes as he passed. As he veered around to reposition for a second pass he watched as the engine of one of his targets smoked before exploding into flame.

_**“Damn fine shootin’!”** _

“Thanks Kirk, but damn fine isn’t going to cut it at this rate!” Lincoln couldn’t get an exact count, but there were at least two dozen fighters in the German formation and behind those another dozen bombers.

Two Messerschmitts fell out of formation, unsteady on their wings, their hulls ripped open by a stream of bullets.

 _ **“I’ve got a mind to remind you who’s the Blue flight leader here,”**_ Johnson teased as he banked away from the plummeting aircraft.

 _ **“Yeah Neal. You’re talkin’ like you’re up here all alone!”**_ Garrett chimed in as he laid down cover fire, to allow them time to line up for a second pass.

 _ **“Glad you boys are finding time to chat!”**_ Tim scolded with the hint of a chuckle. _**“But do try to focus!”**_ There it was: the stiff upper lip of their flight commander.

Lincoln smiled, shaking his head and watching as more German fighters fell victim on the opposite side of the target formation, dropping from the sky, spiraling columns of smoke following in their wake as the Yellow team mirrored their attack.

“I’m going in again!” Lincoln circled around, nearly turning the plane over in a tight barrel roll to reposition as quickly as possible.

 _ **“Lincoln! Wait!”**_ Fairfax bellowed. _**“I’m not in position!"**_

Adrenaline ruled his limbs as he barrelled toward the enemy, thumb hovering over the trigger. They were in his sights, one of them already smoking from the first pass. He came in a little higher this time, angling downward, a clearer shot at the engines.

_**“Lincoln!”** _

“Hammer down!” He pressed the red trigger button, a hail of .303 caliber copper heads firing out, striking his target, engines erupting in flames. As Lincoln whipped by, tipping away and dipping his wings to avoid the debris of the falling 109, three fighters peeled away from the formation in pursuit.

 _ **“Damn it Lincoln!”**_ Fairfax yelled. _**“I told you I wasn’t in position! You’ve got three on your tail and I don’t have a clear shot!”**_

Lincoln’s heart pounded hard against his breastbone, anticipation and fear tightening his jaw and closing his throat. In front of him, other single pilots pursued by the enemy took fire, some plummeting toward the choppy waters below. He heard the first ping of metal-on-metal as bullets began to stream past his canopy.

 _ **“Neal! Get out of there! Pull up!”**_ Fairfax had a level disposition, but his voice shook with terror.

Lincoln adjusted his flaps, weaving through the air. A moving target was harder to hit, but the first round to lodge itself into the bullet-resistant glass of his canopy proved it wasn’t impossible. Lincoln’s plane shuddered as a string of bullets connected with the armoured panels on his right as he dipped toward the water. “I’m under fire! I’m taking fire!”

_**“Pull up damn it!”** _

But there was no up. Lincoln looked up out of now cracked canopy to find that one of the planes in pursuit had closed off his escape, boxing him in.

Bullets ricocheted off armoured plates, but one well-aimed shot pierced through the side Lincoln’s cockpit, lodging itself into the opposite panel, narrowly missing his knee. Was this it? Was this how it ended? In a hail of bullets over the waters of a foreign land? He thought he might feel something akin to fear in this moment, but there was only calm. The sparkling water and white cliffs seemed as nice a view as he could ask for, and when he closed his eyes he was met with the warmth of a smiling face, of a love he would never know.

Lincoln pulled his plane out of the dive near the water’s surface, gliding over the glinting waves as bullets pelted by, spraying his windscreen. The rip of cloth and flesh as a round punctured the already cracked canopy, grazing his shoulder, the blood already seeping through his jacket. This really was it. His grip loosened for the first time since his wheels had lifted from the ground, a surrender of sorts, to it all. His head fell back, his eyes drifting closed. “Goodbye,” he whispered, a soft smile on his lips.

The echo of gunfire filled his head, but instead of his engine exploding, his wings ripping apart, he opened his eyes to see the German plane flying at his flank plummeting into the water below, torn to pieces by the force of impact.

Lincoln grabbed hold of the steering column and maneuvered out of the way of the thrown debris as Garrett’s plane whipped by, circling and taking aim at another on Lincoln’s tail.

Though the sense of relief and appreciation was undeniable, Garrett had broken protocol and all because of him. “What are you doing!?” Lincoln yelled as Garrett’s Brownings let loose a pelting stream of lead that ripped through the tail of his target. “What about Johnso–”

 _ **“Fairfax is on it.”**_ Garrett looped around under Lincoln. _**“And what can I say? Old habits die hard.”**_ The cheek of a wink was clear in his tone.

“That’s not the point, Garrett… it’s foolhardy and you know that!”

 ** _“I’m foolhardy!? You’re the one who… you know what? Just shut your trap!”_** he chirped. _**“Like I was just gonna watch that happen.”**_ Garrett nailed down the second plane.

The last 109 dropped back as its comrade exploded into metal shrapnel.

“I had it well in hand,” Lincoln lied, listening to Garrett’s single loud laugh fill his ears.

_**“How about you stop being so ungrateful and help me out here!”** _

Lincoln drew in a deep breath, sighing it out with a smile. He wheeled around, the Spitfire’s agility allowing him to easily fall in line with Garrett. “Two down, one to go.”

 _ **“Yeah. No thanks to you,”**_ Garrett taunted.

Lincoln could practically feel the nudge to the shoulder which would have accompanied the jab had they been on the ground. Only moments ago he been sailing through the air believing the view out his window and in his mind’s eye to be his last, and yet here he was, Garrett at his side.

_**“Well… what are you waiting for? Am I your wingman or what?”** _

Lincoln gritted his teeth to force down the lump in his throat. He steeled himself, his eyes focused on the enemy plane ahead as they careened after it, away from the fray. “Always.” He pulled ahead of Garrett, taking his offensive position and training his sights on the fuselage just behind the pilot, at the fuel tanks, knowing it would take several bullets to pierce the armoured plate and bring her down. He locked on and let loose nearly all the rounds left in his guns.

Garrett followed behind, laying out a string of bullets over the the nose of the plane as they passed over it. The Messerschmitt pitched and yawed, the engine billowing smoke as it began to roll through the air, firing off its guns as it plunged toward distant waters of the Channel.

Lincoln spiraled upwards – whooping out in celebration. Elation caused his fingertips to tingle and his eyes to water. With his friend at his tail he climbed toward the others, but his stomach dropped when suddenly Garrett called out.

_**“Shit!”** _

Lincoln’s heart leapt into his throat at the sound of alarm.

_**“Red one this is Blue two. My oil pressure is falling. Repeat. Oil pressure falling.”** _

Lincoln’s eyes shot open, had Garrett been hit? Was it a leak? A oil leak in the cockpit was the kiss of death in the Mk 1s, the heat of the engine sparking it to flame and trapping you inside a smoking coffin. He craned his neck looking for evidence of smoke, of fire.

 _ **“Are you hit Evans?”**_ Tim asked, concern clear in the tightness of his voice.

The air waves were silent for only the briefest of moments, but it felt like an eternity as Lincoln waited for the reply.

 _ **“No.”**_ Garrett was calm, if not annoyed.

The tightness in Lincoln’s chest abated, his body pulling in oxygen in shallow gulps.

_**“God damn it! I must have pushed her too hard out of that dive.”** _

Above them the Luftwaffe’s swarm thinned, picked off one by one by the big wing of British fighters.

_**“Evans, ease up on the throttle or you’ll burn out that engine.”** _

Lincoln barreled forward, climbing to join the others while Garrett lagged behind. Lincoln’s plane felt wrong. He groaned; she always handled with a lighter touch when the tank ran low. He looked down at his dash to see the indicator light flashing. He must have burned out in the chase. “No,” he muttered under his breath before announcing it to the others. “I’m light!”

 _ **“Oh for God’s sake!”**_ Tim said as a loud thump rang out. He’d been known to give his control column a battering.

Other pilots chimed in with reports and Tim interrupted them all.

_**“Were heading back! Fall in!”** _

Lincoln watched as the squadron flew in from all around him, each of the dozen planes accounted for, a few a little worse for wear: the rudder of Yellow 3 pierced through in a few places, Red 2’s antenna line hanging to the side, the pole bent over, and more than a few wore scars across the green and brown paint. Lincoln was sure his own shattered canopy was a sight. To his left, Garrett pulled into position, his plane out of sync with the others.

 _ **“I’m not going to be able to open ‘er enough to keep up.”**_ Lincoln could hear Garrett fiddling with switches and dials. _**“You go on ahead and I’ll baby her home.”**_

“Garrett. No!” Lincoln’s reaction was visceral and sharp. “I’m not leavin–”

 _ **“You don’t have enough fuel to sit here and argue with me.”**_ Garrett fell back from the formation.

Lincoln let off the throttle of his own plane, falling back alongside him. “Garrett. I’m not leaving you.”

_**“It’s not up for discussion Lincoln.”**_ He tipped his wings and angled closer, forcing Lincoln to pull away. _**“Now get out of here!"**_

_**“Neal.”**_ Tim spoke softly _**"Go. I’ll fly back with him. Red 3 take my place.”**_

“But–”

_**“That’s an order, Lincoln.”** _

Lincoln had never felt nearer a tantrum than he had since he was a child. How could he possibly be expected to just fly away?

_**“Lincoln. I’ll be there. I promise.”** _

Lincoln gritted his teeth, his jaw pulling tight.

_**“I promise.”** _

Lincoln looked down at his fuel gauge. At this rate he’d be lucky to make it back. He chewed his lip and relented, revving his engine and falling back in formation with the others.

The chaos of the fray drifted away, the sound fading behind them. It didn’t take long for them to begin to outpace Tim and Garrett, their planes shrinking into the distance. Their air-to-air radio communication would get choppy soon. Lincoln tried to steady his erratically beating heart. It would help no one for him to panic. Garrett was an adept pilot, accompanied by the most experienced airman he’d ever met.

The airwaves were silent, save for the occasional chirp of pilots checking in on one another. Lincoln hadn’t said a word, even when Fairfax had asked him a question directly.

As Church Fenton appeared in the distance – hangers peppering the open fields surrounded by stands of mixed woods – a few of his squadron mates were already touching down as a frantic sound crackled through Lincoln’s headset.

 _ **“On your six! Two–”**_ Garbled static drowned out the communication. _**“Taking fire–”**_ More static. _**“Get out–”**_

The voice was a jumbled mess, garbled and barely there, the sound of explosive gunfire overpowering it. But even through the mess of static and confusion, Lincoln’s entire body lit with goosebumps at the realization of its owner: Garrett. He moved to wheel around, to head back when his engine began to sputter. The fuel gauge hung limply below the last tick. He was running on fumes. “Damn it!” He slammed his fist on the dial. “Damn you!”

_**“Get it on the ground Neal! There’s nothing you can do!”** _

“Shut up Kirk!” Lincoln screamed. “I know, God damn it. I know.” He wiped the corner of his eye with the back of his hand as he approached the landing strip of the airfield. He lowered his landing gear, listening for another sign from his friend but there was only silence.

Lincoln was coming in a little hot, having been too distracted to reduce his speed on approach. His landing gear groaned as he rolled onto the turf, the plane bouncing over the uneven ground, the nose tipping momentarily toward the dirt. Lincoln ripped off his safety belt as he steered her clear of the landing zone, popping open his damaged canopy before he’d come to a stop. He clambered out onto the wing, cradling his arm, cursing the gash in his skin. He shielded his eyes from the blazing sun that hung close to the horizon with a well-positioned palm

He’d been the last to land; the others had climbed out of their planes and gathered together closer to the hangar. Lincoln stared up into the empty sky. His ears rang. In that absence of the screaming engines and explosions, the silence was nearly deafening. He hopped down into the grass, trailing the tips of his fingers over sharp ruts in the side of his plane, grazing blows leaving behind deep scars.

He spun slowly, taking in as much of the sky as he could, searching for a sign. “Where are you?” he muttered, gnawing at the inside of his lip, clenching his fists. He pulled his helmet and goggles from his sweat-beaten brow, his damp hair flopping into his eyes. “Where the hell are you!” he shouted, brushing the hair back from his face and tossing his helmet into the grass.

“There!” his flight leader called from across the field, pointing to the east.

Lincoln heard the sound of the engine before he had the chance to turn around. A single plane approached the airfield. Lincoln peered around it in search of the other, but it flew alone. His knees wobbled under his weight as he watched it make its final approach, and as it barreled down the runway, it became clear who piloted it. Tim.

Lincoln’s heart threatened to shatter his ribs as he jogged across the field.

Tim slid back his canopy and hauled himself free of the cockpit and out onto the wing when he was yanked down to the ground.

“What the hell happened up there!?” Lincoln yelled, pulling Tim around to face him.

“Lincoln… please–”

“Where is he!?” Lincoln yelled, gritting his teeth and balling Tim’s uniform in his clenched fist.

“Lincoln… I…” Tim stuttered, his eyes avoiding Lincoln’s, instead peering at the bloody tear in Lincoln’s shoulder. “You’re hurt.”

“God. Never mind that!”

“We… They followed us.”

Lincoln’s brows knitted, narrowing his dampening eyes. His body began to tremble.

Tim kept his gaze trained on the ground. “He tried to warn me… they had us pinned down and he circled back, but I…”

“No. Stop.” Lincoln’s voice shuddered free from his trembling lips.

“I lost contact. He–”

“Did…” Lincoln’s drew breath, rapid and shallow, into his lungs. “Did you see him crash?”

“Lincoln… don’t–”

“Tell me!” he hollered, holding firm to Tim’s jacket as he slammed him back against his plane.

Tim was silent, clenching his jaw but making no attempt to push Lincoln back.

“I said, tell me!” Lincoln screamed, throwing a fist and striking the riveted steel plate next to Tim’s face, bloodying his knuckles.

Tim locked eyes with him. “That’s enough, Lincoln.” He shoved Lincoln back. “He’s gone.”

Lincoln staggered on unsteady legs. No. Please no. He brought his hands to his hair, turning away from Tim as he fell to his knees, crying out to the clouds, chin tipped to the sky.

Tim’s hand closed over his shoulder. “Lincoln… I’m so sor–”

“Don’t touch me.” He pulled his shoulder free and dropped his fist to the ground, clasping at blades of grass, tearing it from the earth and slammed his fists down, soil stinging the abrasions across his knuckles, caking with the blood in the cracks of his skin as tears welled up in his eyes leaving a glistening trail down his cheek. This was all his fault. He reached into his pocket, his bloodied hand closing over Garrett’s coin. All of it. If he–

Lincoln’s eyes shot open. He thought for a moment that the sputtering engine he heard was a ghost, a remnant of the battle echoing in his mind, but it grew louder. Lincoln got to his feet, unsteady and weak.

“Lincoln! Look!” Tim hauled him around, pointing above the tree line.

Garrett. Lincoln grabbed Tim and shook him. “Hah ha!” Lincoln jumped, his hands firmly planted on Tim’s shoulders.

Tim shook his head, sighing out in relief. “I swear that boy could fly an apple box if he had to.” He patted Lincoln’s back, as he stepped past him heading for the rest of the squadron who clapped as he approached.

Lincoln took a few more steps, running his hand through his hair, watching as Garrett’s plane approached the landing zone, but there was something wrong. The plane teetered, veering away from Lincoln, its landing gear still tucked inside. “Oh shit.” His hand fell to his side. “Tim!” he yelled over his shoulder, as he bolted in the direction of what would be Garrett’s crash landing.

Tim hollered a command for the others to gather the fire trucks, the medic. It’s was chaos anew as he ran to catch up with Lincoln. 

Garrett’s plane neared the grass, his antenna hanging limply over the tail, his rudder snapped in half. He was flying a brick and he had no way to warn them without his radio. They’d practiced crash landing scenarios, but watching his best friend prepare to land a plane on its belly in the rutted fields of northern England was another story.

“Tip the nose!” Tim feebly cried.

Garrett’s nose cone pointed skywards, as though he’d heard Tim’s command. The plane skidded across the grass, its fuselage taking on the role of landing gear. The propeller blades shattered as they dug into the dirt, throwing up chunks of sod and earth. The engine smoked and Lincoln could feel the heat intensifying as he rushed across the field.

The plane came to rest, sputtering and snapping, steam and smoke flowing from the engine.

“Garrett!” Lincoln called, breathless and panting. His legs were weak and burned from the exertion as he doubled over, clasping his knees.

The canopy creaked before sliding back, scraping and grinding. Garrett cut loose his belt with the pocket knife on his vest. “These things are a damn death trap!” he croaked, his face streaked with blood that ran down from a gash on his forehead.

Lincoln rushed toward him. “Garrett!”

“Get back!” Garrett yelled, hauling himself out of the steel seat. “Ever heard the ol’ ‘where there’s smoke there’s fire’ saying there pal?” he chuckled, climbing out over the now fused door panel.

Lincoln couldn’t believe Garrett had managed to land a plane that didn’t seem to possess a single working part. “You sure did a number on the poor girl,” Lincoln teased. “I can’t even believe you landed ‘er.” Lincoln stared in amazement.

“I did make a promise.” Garrett smirked, cupping his hand to his side. “And I’d like to think she’s grateful I got her back here in…” he turned to look at the mess that was his plane, “well... mostly one piece.” He hopped down off the wing and stumbled to the ground.

The fire trucks rolled across the field from the far hangar as the rest of the squadron jogged toward them.

Garrett got to his feet, but only managed a few more steps before he tumbled into the grass.

Lincoln rushed to his side, kneeling down next to him in the grass. “Take it easy, Evans. You hit your head,” Lincoln said, pushing back Garrett’s helmet, getting a closer look at the seeping gash in his brow. “I’m guessing the control column had something to say about that landing.” Lincoln pulled off his jacket and tore a strip off the bottom of his shirt, pressing it to Garrett’s forehead.

Garrett smiled, but shook his head. He looked down at his hands clasped over his ribs; on the ground next to him lay a jagged piece of steel, blackened with blood. His hands shuddered as he pulled them back: they were soaked in crimson, pooling in the crevices and trickling down to the tips of his fingers. His blue uniform hid the alarming colour, but his jacket was black and slick with blood.

“No.” Lincoln’s mouth went dry, his eyes darting over his friend. “But… you… why did you...“ his hands trembled, ghosting over Garrett, unsure and unsteady. “You were fine!” His body quaked, his heart raced as a wave a nausea washed over him. “Somebody help!” Lincoln screamed over his shoulder as he ripped the torn sleeve from his jacket and wadded it up around his hand. He peeled back Garrett’s jacket, his shirt underneath revealing the severity of his injury.

The shrapnel had lodged itself between his lower ribs. Lincoln was no doctor, but he’d been trained enough to know that Garrett’s laboured breathing meant he’d collapsed a lung, and the blood, all that blood. Lincoln pulled Garrett into his lap. “Garrett.” He said as calmly as he could manage. “Garrett, look at me. You’re going to be okay.” 

“Lincoln...” Garrett sputtered.

“Shhhh… try not to speak.” Lincoln pressed the wadded cloth over to Garrett’s wound, and it soaked through almost instantly. “Just stay with me, yeah?” he smiled, blinking away tears. He looked up to see the rest of his squadron slowing as they got closer.

“It’s so cold.” Garrett shivered, the colour in his face fading.

Lincoln closed his mouth around the sob that formed and swallowed it back. He draped what was left of his jacket over Garrett and rocked him in his arms. “It’s okay… it’s alright.” He looked over at Tim. “Help him!” he screamed.

Tim covered his mouth with his hand, shaking his head as his gaze dropped to the grass.

“I’m s… sorry.” Garrett lifted his hand, reaching for Lincoln’s, the corner of his mouth spilling a trickle of blood.

“Don’t you say that.” Lincoln wiped it away with the back of his hand. He couldn’t hold back the flood anymore. The tears ran freely from his eyes, trickling down and dripping from the tip of his nose.

Garrett grabbed his hand, his bright eyes shining. “Will you… can y… Julie...” he breathed, his grip loosening, his hand falling to his own chest, patting his breast pocket, his fingers teasing out a small folded note.

Lincoln drew in a wet breath through his nose. “I promise… I’ll tell her. Everything.” His heart ached, but everything else was numb.

“Linc… I… Brothers.”

Lincoln sobbed, just once, deep and pained. He had to be strong. Garrett needed his friend. Lincoln reached into his own pocket and plucked the already bloodied quarter from it. “Brothers,” he whispered, his voice broken as he placed it in the palm of Garrett’s hand, folding his fingers around it.

It seemed to take the last of Garrett’s will to pull his lip into a smile as the light in his eyes faded out.

Lincoln’s eyes darted between his friend’s. “Garrett?” He shook him, freeing his hand from the blood-soaked cloth. “Garrett!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I wept... so much. I'm so sorry. I just... yeah.
> 
> <3


	14. Dawn and Dusk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:_  
>  _Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn._  
>  _At the going down of the sun and in the morning_  
>  _We will remember them._  
>  \- Excerpt from _"For the Fallen"_ by Laurence Binyon
> 
>  
> 
> **Recommended Listening:**  
> [Arctic - Sleeping at Last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c8xtGXsueXA)  
> [Uranus - Sleeping At Last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-DJMvtBP4qQ)  
> [Bayou - Mountains of the Moon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V5i7awRSywk)

_**September 9, 1940: RAF Church Fenton, Yorkshire, UK.** _

The light is so soft around his face, almost like it is actually radiating from his smile, the echo of his laughter just as warm as its glow. The scenery around them shifts and flows – classrooms fading into open fields, misty canals ebbing to become library stacks – all the while he is constant, they are unchanged.

Garrett reaches out through the swirling mist of memory and just as their hands fold together, the air fills with smoke and flame. Gunfire and distant screams replace the soothing laughter and calm.

“Lincoln...”

The broken sound draws Lincoln back, pulls him from the chaos, pulls him back to Garrett. Where once a smile rounded cheeks, lit up blue eyes, pallor and weakness have taken hold. Garrett’s eyes are sunken and blood spills from his mouth, his hands still outstretched and waiting.

Hands frozen at his sides, feet cemented in place. Helpless and afraid. Voiceless and shattered. Lincoln can do nothing but watch.

“Help me!”

Lincoln jolted upright in his bunk, cold sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, undershirt clinging to his heaving chest. His fingers knotted into his sheets and his pounding heart shooting blood through his veins. The room around him was shrouded in the secrecy of darkness, no hint of light yet filtering in through the small windows at the end of the room.

He threw off his blanket and swung his legs over the rail, the concrete chilling the soles of his bare feet. He rubbed his eyes and temples before slumping forward, elbows digging into his thighs, fingers buried in his hair. His eyes were closed tight as he attempted to squint away the images his dreams had etched in his mind’s eye.

The others slept soundly, and their soft breathing and murmuring snores began to drown out the echos of his dream. As his eyes began to adjust, he turned his attention to the clock on the cabinet next to his bunk. It ticked along and with each stuttered jump of the second hand, Lincoln felt the distance between he and Garrett grow. 6:12 am. He’d only managed to exist in his subconscious for mere hours since he’d sat broken and blood-soaked, trembling under the weight of his loss. The sun would crest the horizon soon, illuminating the sky on the day he’d be forced to say goodbye.

Lincoln stood, hesitating a moment before turning to look over Garrett’s empty bunk, still tidily made, blanket folded at the foot just as he’d left it. Lincoln clenched his jaw, and raised a shaking hand; he smoothed it over the cool, cotton sheet. A tiny thread had frayed loose of the stitching at the fold and Lincoln twisted it around his finger before snapping it free. The tip of his finger ached, throbbing with each beat of his heart, the colour of it deepening as the thread cut off the circulation.

He leaned forward and rested his forehead on the cool metal of the bunk rail, dragging his fingernail over the coiled string. The floor under his feet grew lighter as the first hints of the day’s light crept through the shutters. Lincoln turned to see slivers of pink sky through the cracks and gaps. He pulled the string loose and felt the sting as the blood flow was restored. This is it.

Lincoln dressed slowly, fastening his belt one notch too tight, pulling his jacket over his shoulders and roughly yanking it around his neck. He sat on his bunk as he laced his boots. He stared down at the lopsided loops for a moment before tearing them free and starting over, angrily coercing them into order. He pulled his journal from beneath his pillow and slipped on his glasses. As he stood from his bunk, he ran his hand up the steel post of the bed, the ridges of his thumb catching on a scratch in the paint, an etching, initials. _‘G.E.’_

His hand slipped away as the familiar sting of tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He ran down the row of bunks, crashing through the doors into the corridor and stumbling toward the exit. The damp morning air filled his lungs and cooled the tears on his cheeks. He stared out through bleary eyes at the airfield, the glowing horizon laid out before him, the tall grass at its edge flowing in the breeze.

Lincoln turned away from the morning glow, toward a darker horizon, toward the scarred earth where Garrett’s plane still rested in the mud. Lincoln’s trembling legs carried him closer; the smell of petrol and seared grass hung heavy in the air. The battered fuselage reflected back glints of the pale dawn light. His boots sank into the muck near the crumpled nose cone as he traced his fingers over the splintered ends of the shattered propeller blades. The jagged remnants dug into his skin, scratching and scraping, but he was numb.

When Garrett had slipped away in his arms, Lincoln felt a similar darkness grow within him. He’d never given much thought to the residence of the soul – or the importance of spirit for that matter – but the ache he felt radiating from his chest, a weakness in his every fibre, led him to conclude that the soul must be a ubiquitous form within. Not like a heart or lung, nothing so tangible as that. It couldn’t be labeled in a textbook or examined on an x-ray. It had been two days since this very spot had been on fire, two days since a life had been absorbed into the earth, and Lincoln’s body ached and mourned for the lost vibrancy of his soul, for the light that had gone out within him as it faded from Garrett’s eyes.

The interior of the cockpit was obscured in shadow, but the chipped ivory paint couldn’t hide the dark blood stains. Lincoln’s legs trembled, weakening under his weight. He caught himself on the edge of the open cockpit and settled onto the wing. He set his journal next to him and leaned forward, his head hanging between his knees as his chest began to heave. His tears dripped from the end of his nose joining the puddle at his feet.

The grass a few yards away lay flat, the blades matted and tramped down. Lincoln wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, the streaked tears across his skin cooling in the slight morning breeze. He laid his palm flat on the cool steel of the plane’s wing as his eyes fluttered closed.

In his mind’s eye, it all played out again: the air oppressive, choked with smoke and exhaust, voices and plane engines drowning out the sounds of his own quiet sobs. He could almost feel the sensation of Tim’s hand on his shoulder and hear the explosive sound of his own voice, rage and hurt spewing from his lips. He wasn’t sure how long he rocked on his knees in the muck, Garrett cradled in his arms. His feet had gone numb in his boots, and the sun had nestled into the tops of trees before Tim managed to get him to his feet. He had watched as the others lifted Garrett onto a stretcher, covering him with a wool blanket, before anguish and grief forced his gaze downward, over his bloodied uniform and stained hands.

Lincoln opened his eyes and stared down at his hands, fisted in his lap; his knuckles were raw and red, skin chapped from his near-obsessive attempts to wash them clean. He’d stood at the sink staring down at the swirling red as it disappeared into the drain, leaving the faucet to run scalding hot until the water ran red anew with his own blood. He was rubbed raw, in every way that a man could be.

He brushed the hair back from his eyes and thumbed open his journal to the pages he’d filled with the ache of his loss. On the first clean page, there were impressions, impressions of a letter he had written on a torn out page. The one he’d written to Julie. The exact words he’d used were a blur, the first coming reluctantly, then threatening to spill out across the page. The things left unsaid, things he’d never dared to share, secrets kept locked in the dark. But this wasn’t about him. He traced his fingers over the scored page.

  


_September 8th, 1940_

_Julie,_

_I don’t know if you will open this letter, and I can’t blame you if you choose to leave it sealed. But I made a promise. I send this with hope that the goodness in your heart will give you the strength to read my words._

_Nothing I can say will ever be enough. What I have done is unforgivable. I should have been honest. I didn’t even have the courage to tell you myself… You deserve better. I knew that and I still… I was selfish and careless with your heart and I will never forgive myself for it. I won’t ask for the forgiveness I do not deserve and never will. This letter is probably the hardest thing I have ever, and will ever, write. I don’t know what else to say… but there is something you need to know, something I have to tell you._

_Garrett. He’s gone. I lost him. I was pinned down, I thought it was over… and he saved my life, but his plane malfunctioned. We got separated. He took fire on retreat and... It happened so fast, Jules. He landed. He was fine. He was smiling and laughing, and then he was just… gone._

_He spoke of you in the end… and before. He loved you, Julie. I think he always did. What’s worse is, I think you cared for him too and I stole that from you both._

_He made me promise to tell you that he carried you next to his heart. I’m enclosing a note he carried in his breast pocket and one he entrusted to me with the last of his life. You should have it._

_I wish I could take it all back. Everything. If I could only go back... I’d change it all._

_I’m so sorry._

_Lincoln_

  


Lincoln pulled the ink-stained pen from his pocket and wrote out a single line over the impressions of those he’d written before.

_‘I’d give my life to make it right… It should have been me.’_

He folded the journal closed and wrapped it in its leather bindings. The sky was brightening on the far horizon. Lincoln stood, letting the earth swallow the soles of his boots, his palm pressed to the cool glass of the cracked windscreen. “I wish it’d been me.”

The windows of the barracks lit one by one, throwing their yellow glow across the grass. Lincoln’s breath came ragged into his lungs, filling his tight chest. He willed himself to take a step toward the pain that awaited him. His entire body felt as though it were tied in a knot.

He walked silently through the corridors, passing a crowd of faceless people along the way. His uniform hung from the end of his steel bunk, crisp and firmly pressed. He sat down, plucking the borrowed hat from the trunk at the foot of his bed. He’d lost his own, left it hanging on a post in an alley outside a pub. This one sat low over his eyes, the band just a little too large. He set it down next to him and tucked his glasses away beside his pillow. From the cubby under his bunk he pulled a book, a collection of poems Dr. Claybourne had given him when he’d begun his summer studies.

He flipped through the worn pages, his head resting on his pillow, until he reached the dog-eared page. After having been asked to speak for his friend — to offer words for a life he’d felt responsible for taking — Lincoln had struggled to find his own, and instead turned to those that had always inspired him, those more eloquent than he could ever be. He read over the reading he’d selected. A poem he committed to memory long ago, but one that always resonated more truly when the ink was under his finger.

He laid in silence for a long while; hours may have passed without his notice as he stared up at the steel frame above him. He rubbed at the bandage on his shoulder; the wound was still tender, but he’d removed the sling. The pain was a reminder he welcomed. 

The others had taken his anger in the preceding days as a warning and had offered him space, a wide berth, and for that he was grateful. He didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to hear apologies and concern. So they dressed and prepared quiety, leaving him to his silent grief. He heard their voices at times, muffled and distant, as though they spoke from above the water he was drowning in.

He drifted in and out of restless sleep. His dreams coming quickly and fading away, nothing lingering long enough to leave an impression. Flashes and smiles, pain and heat, a soft touch, a sharp sting. When he eventually woke and rolled onto his side, the face of the clock seemed to lie. It was nearly time already.

He changed slowly, carefully folding his clothes into a neat pile and running his hand over his suit jacket, picking at the tiniest imperfections in the smooth wool. He fussed with buttons and fasteners, cinched the belt around his waist, and placed the hat on his head. He caught his reflection for only a moment in the small mirror mounted to the wall above the nightstand before a soft call came from the doorway.

“It’s time, Lincoln.”

Lincoln’s eyes stung as he squeezed them closed. His nails dug into the palms of his hands.

“Lincoln?” Tim was a little closer now.

“His folks?” Lincoln managed through trembling lips.

“A telegram has been sent. A representative will be sent to deliver the news.”

The ache in Lincoln’s chest deepened. He’d only met Garrett’s parents twice, but it was clear that they loved their son dearly, their only son. How had he managed to destroy so much? And in the midst of all this destruction, he’d been selfishly indulging his desire, his greed.

“It’ll be done right.”

“Ha,” Lincoln scoffed, pulling the inside of his lip between his teeth. “Done right…”

“Lincoln… I—”

“That’s enough, Tim.” Lincoln snatched the book from his pillow. “I don’t need you to make this easier.” He turned to face his commanding officer. Lincoln wouldn’t allow anyone to dull the pain. He wanted it to ache. If it stung, Garrett was still with him. If it burned, he wasn’t alone. “It should hurt.”

Tim nodded, his lips pressed in a frown as he patted Lincoln’s shoulder.

They walked together out into the courtyard. The others were already gathered. Members of the Canadian 242 squadron, stationed with Lincoln’s own 71st, stood off to the side, rifles at their sides.

The tiniest hint of pink kissed the horizon, the sun beginning its descent to the earth as Lincoln took his place next to Fairfax. No one spoke, the silence broken only by the snap of a flag fluttering at half mast. Tim stepped around them, standing next to the vicar from the village. Garrett would have a proper funeral on U.S. soil; he would be honoured for his sacrifice, his body draped in the flag of his country, Tim would make sure of it. But here, in the fields of Yorkshire, Lincoln would say his goodbye to a pine box.

A cleared throat and a straightened tie; that’s how Tim usually began a difficult conversation, and today’s address was no different. “Today we stand together to honour a young man who gave his life in the service of others.” Tim stood rather motionless, his hands at his sides, his eyes never meeting any of those that looked on. “Today we mourn Flight Officer Garrett Evans.”

Lincoln’s hands began to tremble at his sides, every fingertip tingling. He held firm to the book in his hand.

“I’ve not occasion to know bravery or tenacity to match that which he displayed.” 

Lincoln’s throat ached, the sobs he held tight inside fighting to escape.

“It is with a heavy heart that we say goodbye to a comrade lost, and it is a humble breath we must take to remain.” Tim’s voice wavered as he paused a moment, his gaze finally falling on Lincoln. “Would you like to speak?”

The question hung in the air, heavy enough to anchor him in place. But Lincoln swallowed back the pain and hurt, willed the anger and loss into retreat. If his words were the last thing he could offer, if they were all that was left, he would find a way to give them voice. He nodded and moved to stand at Tim’s side.

“Thank you, Sir,” Lincoln whispered. He flipped open the book in his hands, staring down at the words he’d chosen to see his friend into the next life.

“Garrett always said that our actions were the truest form of expression.” Lincoln looked up at the sky. “It’s probably why he followed me here without question. Without a word, he was by my side.”

Tim shifted at Lincoln’s side, moving closer. “It’s okay,” he whispered.

Lincoln gave a slight nod. ”Words were for those ‘lacking the conviction to act’,” Lincoln smiled, drawing in a ragged breath through his nose. “You can imagine my surprise at finding him under a lamplight, pages deep in this.” Lincoln held up the book. “Whitman was his favorite, so I’ll be reading his words.”

“ _A Clear Midnight_ ,” Lincoln began. “This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless.” Lincoln paused, his eyes drifting closed. “Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done.” He spoke slowly, letting each word have its moment. “Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing.” Lincoln’s voice faltered. “Pondering the themes thou lovest best.” The familiar sting of building tears began to nip at the corners of Lincoln’s eyes.

The leaves rustled in the treeline; there was a warmth in the breeze, uncharacteristic of early fall. It flowed over Lincoln’s skin and through his hair, and yet — despite its warmth — Lincoln shivered as it swirled around him, smiling as a lightness filled him, his burden lessened. “Okay, buddy…” Lincoln whispered. "Okay."

“Night, sleep,” a long moment of silence prefacing the final words, “death… and the stars.” Lincoln closed the pages and crouched down, smoothing his hand over the rough pine. “The stars,” he breathed.

The grain of the wood caught in the ridges of his fingertips, a small sliver slipped into his skin. Lincoln winced and stood, stepping back, lifting his hat from his head as he blinked a tear free of his eye.

Tim placed a hand on his shoulder and the two stood together as the vicar, a sadly familiar presence on base, began the recitation of prayers.

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” The weariness clear in the man’s voice.

The others stared down at their feet, their hats tucked under their arms as the service continued.

Lincoln heard little else, save the few words that slipped through the haze. _We blossom and then wither._ Lincoln uttered his Amens with little conviction. _Deliver us from the bitter pain of eternal death._ It was as though he were barely present, recalling a memory or a dream. _At our last hour let us not fall from you, O holy and merciful Saviour._

As silence fell over the field once again, and the 242 raised their gun barrels to the sky, Lincoln’s tears would no longer be confined. They streamed down his cheeks, leaving dampened trails in their wake.

The gun salute echoed across the open field, leaving Lincoln’s ears ringing. The air was still, the breeze settled as the sun began to disappear, the darkening sky stealing it away. Respectful salutes were given, a hand to a hat, and then backs were turned.

Lincoln began to take small steps backward, away from the others as they patted shoulders and shook hands. He turned and ran, several voices calling out for him as he crashed through the doors, losing his balance, stumbling to the floor, his book sliding away from his grasp. His knees stung, having taken the brunt of his fall. He struggled to get to his feet as he was overtaken by heaving sobs. “Why!?” he screamed at the ceiling, balling his fists. “Damn it!”

Through the blur of his tears, a shape in shadow slowly came into focus. A trunk. Garrett’s trunk. It was all over now. A life ended, packed in a box to be shipped away and forgotten.

“I can’t fucking do this…” Just as Lincoln was about to get to his feet, the door behind him opened.

“Neal?” Tim let the door close behind him. “Oh, Lincoln.”

Lincoln stifled his sobs and wiped his tears away with the sleeve of his jacket. “Sir, I’m… I didn’t mean to… I’m sor—”

“Shhh…” Tim held out his hand to help Lincoln to his feet.

“I don’t—” Lincoln’s words tangled in his tongue. “I can’t…”

“Lincoln.” Tim held Lincoln’s shoulders. “It’s okay to need time,” he said.

Lincoln finally let go completely, tears flowing freely, soft sobs falling from his lips.

Tim let one hand fall away, the other patting Lincoln’s shoulder a few times before he took a small step back and cleared his throat. He stood silently, eyes averted in an attempt to offer comfort and privacy.

Lincoln’s breathing settled, each draw in filling more of his lungs than the one before.

”That’s good… breathe.” Tim gave Lincoln’s shoulder a squeeze. “Good.”

The pounding of Lincoln’s heart quieted in his ears, the flow of tears slowing with it.

“I want you to take some time,” Tim said, pulling something from his pocket. “I want you to take the Silver Hawk and get out of here for a couple of days.”

Lincoln pulled back. “But—”

“That wasn’t a request,” Tim said gently, placing the keys in Lincoln’s hand.

Lincoln gripped the keys. “Sir,” he struggled and failed to find words more suitable. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer than I ever anticipated. I am sorry for the hiatus. It was rather unavoidable, but I do feel awful all the same. I hope the update was worth the wait. I'd love to hear your thoughts! :)
> 
> MUCH LOVE! <3
> 
>  **Art for This Chapter:**  
>  By: Magicbubblepipe  
> [Lincoln at Garrett's service](http://remembertherandler.tumblr.com/post/164121286600/magicbubblepipe-chapter-14-had-me-emotionally)


	15. Uncertainty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Recommended Listening:**   
>  [In My Veins - Andrew Belle](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dGESwIFmOTA)   
>  [Closing In - Ruelle](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BaOFQexNEhc)   
>  [Medicine - Daughter](https://youtu.be/sf6mkYz4mx0)   
>  [Deep End - Ruelle](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6C3ND1nitRs)   
> 

_**September 7, 1940: Tadcaster, Yorkshire, UK.** _

The bar was quiet, even though only a few seats sat empty. A Saturday evening at the Heart and Thistle was never so somber as this. But in the wake of sirens and alarm, the streets of Tadcaster had emptied; the pub’s usually lively stage sat silent, the clinks of pint glasses and boisterous laughter a distant, echoing memory, reverberating around wooden beams and mixing with the occasional hushed whisper of patrons.

Rhett was perched on a stool, full glass of bourbon in hand, staring blankly at the curling corners of the Guinness poster on the wall behind the bar. It was stained and tattered, peeling back, revealing the hole for which it was intended to hide.

Teddy sat at his side, closer than was usual, his arm brushing Rhett’s from time to time. Gerald was seated on an empty keg against the cabinet of glassware, his usually busy hands folded together on his lap. Valerie had arrived just as gunfire erupted in the skies over Yorkshire. She now moved from table to table, quietly filling orders and offering the occasional soft touch to a shoulder or back.

“It’ll be alright, stretch,” Teddy encouraged with a nudge.

Rhett shook his head and looked down at his glass. “You can’t know that.” He tapped glass with his fingers a few times before looking over at his friend.

Teddy’s lips pressed together, downturned in touch of a frown. He winced, touching his fingers to the fresh split in his lip, nodding as he patted Rhett’s shoulder.

"I need some air,” Rhett muttered, pushing away his glass, sliding back his stool, and getting to his feet.

“Rhett… you can’t go ba—”

“I won't, Teddy,” Rhett said through gritted teeth, gripping the seat of the stool tightly between his fingers.

“I think you oughtta stay put, lad,” Gerald cautioned. “Those sirens ain’t for naught.”

“If it’s my time... may God strike me down.” Rhett kicked in his stool, crossed the pub, and pushed out into the street.

The falling sun had begun to change the colour of the cobbles. It filtered through the leaves of the oaks and elms, the shadows painting themselves across the brick buildings and stone walls. Soft clouds drifted across fading hues of blue that were giving way to the pinks and burnt-orange of twilight. It was as peaceful a sky as he’d ever seen.

He reached into his pocket, retrieving his cigarette tin. As he struck the last match in his pack, holding it to the end of his cigarette, a small gust of perfectly timed wind extinguished it. The smell of sulphur accompanied the rising curl of smoke.

“That’s just perfect.” Rhett looked up at the sky. “Got anythin’ else for me? Huh!?” He flicked the match into the street and shook his head as he tucked the cigarette behind his ear.

He filled his lungs and held his breath as he looked out at the horizon over Church Fenton. He’d watched plane after plane fill the sky, Link’s among them. One of those planes had returned on teetering wings after an explosion of gunfire and mayhem in the clouds, much closer than it had ever been before. Terrifying smoke had spiraled out behind it as it had disappeared below the treeline.

~~~ * ~~~

“You saw!” Rhett screamed, ripping his arm free of Teddy’s grasp. “You saw that plane!” Rhett gestured to the bright sky.

“Yes, Rhett… I did, but—”

“Then you… I have to go!”

“Theodore… what’s going on?” Valerie asked, taking Teddy’s hand.

“It’s okay, Val,” Teddy soothed. “Rhett’s just— Rhett wait!”

“I won’t wait! No!” Rhett hollered, having turned away.

“You stubborn shit!” Teddy grabbed his arm. “If I can’t stop ya… then I’m goin’ with ya.”

Rhett shook his head, but before he could protest his friend cut in.

“I’m goin’, dammit,” Teddy said, squeezing Rhett’s arm before turning to Val. He held her chin, meeting her gaze. “Can I borrow the lorry?”

“Where… I don’t…” She looked at Rhett over Teddy’s shoulder, her features contorted in worry. “Yes… yes of course.” She reached into the pocket of her jacket and handed Teddy the key.

Teddy held her close. “I want you to go inside… okay?” He placed his hands on the waves of dark hair framing her face and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Everythin’s gonna be fine… I promise.”

Rhett rushed for the lorry parked on the corner and climbed in. “Let’s go!” He slammed his hand on the outside of the door.

Teddy hopped into the driver’s seat and cranked the engine to life.

Rhett slammed his fist on the weathered dash of Gerald’s lorry. It was for errands, for carrying kegs from the brewery to the pub, for hauling a few sheep from time to time. Rhett wasn’t sure he’d ever known him to have taken it outside of the village at all. It was older than both of its current occupants, and it showed when the worn motor groaned in complaint as Teddy pressed the pedal to the floor.

The trees whipped by the windows, the hues of their leaves revealing the subtle shift in season that September carried with it. The sun crept closer to the horizon and as they wove through the countryside — through moors and pasture — shining through the windscreen. Rhett put his hand up to shield his eyes from the glare.

Rhett knew they were making the trip faster than he ever had — the dust kicked up by the tires as they tore along the dirt road were evidence of that — but it would never be fast enough. He chewed at his nails and the peeling callouses on the tips of his fingers.

“We’ll get there, Rhett…” Teddy said, reaching over and grabbing Rhett’s thigh just above the knee. “I’ll get ya there.”

As they crested a ridge just outside of Church Fenton, the base came into view, the fences stretching out in either direction, light fading fast over a field of steel buildings and aircraft.

Teddy slammed the brakes as they approached the gate and the lorry skidded sideways to a stop. As Rhett reached for his door handle, Teddy grabbed his arm. “What are ya even gonna say?” he asked.

Rhett was silent, the door handle gripped tight in his hand. “I…” He was cemented in his seat; he had no plan, no reason to even be here. Who was he? What reason did he have to ask after anyone? “I don’t—”

Teddy squeezed Rhett’s arm. “Let me,” he said before hopping out of the lorry and heading for the manned gatehouse.

Rhett watched as the guard came out to meet Teddy. They shook hands and Teddy turned and gestured to the lorry and road. Rhett opened his door and stepped out, his eyes downcast as he leaned against the lorry.

“We’re from a village down the road there,” Teddy pointed. “We ‘eard the commotion from up this way… saw a plane comin’ in for what looked like rather a rough go...”

“Yes, well... “ the guard replied, adjusting his hat. “It’s all in hand, I should think,” he stuttered.

Teddy looked back at Rhett with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

Rhett fisted his hands, his jaw clenched tight.

“We were just wonderin’ if you might be able to tell us what ‘appened,” Teddy prodded again. “So that we might share it with the others in the village… they’re all quite worried, ya see.”

The guard turned to look at the base, and then back to Teddy. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t disclose anything aside from what you seem to already know.”

“Bullshit.” Rhett slammed the lorry door. “That’s bullshit!” he yelled, rushing forward.

“Uh... Ex—” The guard stumbled back on startled legs. “Excuse me?”

“I said: bullshit!” Rhett shoved past Teddy and loomed over the guard, looking down at his name badge. “Fairfax, is it?” Rhett’s voice was sharp and cutting.

"Yes. And it's as I—”

Rhett scoffed, rolling his eyes and tossing back his head when the drifting clouds of smoke caught his eye. A battered plane lay half buried in the muck, its engine still smoking from the flames that must have been burning only a short time ago. The flag in the center of the nearby courtyard snapped in the wind, flying at half mast.

Rhett’s face grew hot, his laboured breath pulling the cotton of his shirt tight across his chest. He reached out and grabbed the guard by the collar.

Teddy scrambled to stop him. “Rhett!” he hissed. “Rhett… don’t do this!” He grabbed his friend’s shoulder.

“Get your hands off me!” Rhett threw back an elbow, clipping Teddy in the jaw. “Was it him!?” he yelled, shaking the confused young airman with enough force to knock his hat from his head.

“Was it wh—” The officer clawed at Rhett’s grip on him. “Get your hands off of me!”

Teddy spat blood onto the ground. “Rhett!” he said, grabbing Rhett around the waist.

“Tell me!” Rhett’s voice caught, his throat aching, eyes beginning to sting.

Teddy leaned closer, his chin resting on Rhett’s shoulder, closing his hands together and squeezing him around the middle. “Rhett…” he struggled to keep his hold. “Rhett please… stop…”

The anger that had exploded from Rhett’s fingertips, that had dripped from his words, gave way. His grip began to weaken along with his knees. “I’m sorry…” He felt Teddy take his slack weight as he released his hold. “I… I’m so sor—”

“Get him out of here!” The guard hollered, wiping his hands down his coat, taking a few steps back toward the gatehouse. “Now! Before I call to have him detained!”

~~~ * ~~~

A silence seemed to creep across the streets and surrounding hills as the last flecks of sunlight gave in to the inexorable flood of night. He wouldn’t have answers tonight, and if he was to be without them — without relief or resolution — he too would fall into blackness.

The only thing that had been confirmed was loss. Casualty. Of that Rhett was now certain. The sound of the flag echoed in his mind as he rubbed the heels of his hands in his eyes, falling into a crouch and throwing his hat to the cobbles.

“Dammit.” He wove his hands into his hair, yanking it until it stung. He was no closer to the truth, succeeding in: muddying the waters, bloodying his friends lip, and making a scene that could have damn-near gotten him arrested.

He snatched up his hat, stood, and stormed back into the pub. Without a word, he downed the glass of bourbon he’d left behind. “Another.” He pointed to his glass, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Gerald pulled the bottle from the shelf, but before he could even finish the pour, Rhett grabbed the tumbler, allowing a small trickle of liquor to form a pool on the bartop.

Rhett threw back a second drink. “Another,” he said, holding out his glass.

“Come now, son—”

“I said: another!” Rhett slammed the glass down in the pooled bourbon, sending droplets of it splattering across the bar and its keep.

Teddy got up and stood at his side. “I think’d be best if ya took it easy, there Rh—”

“Oh shut it, Teddy!” Rhett hollered, the attention of everyone in the room now firmly on him. “I don’t think I need _you_ of all people telling me how to drink!” Rhett scoffed, reaching to take the bottle from Gerald.

“Now that’s quite enough!” Gerald said, pulling the bourbon close to his chest, his stern features accentuated by his thick mustache. “I’ll not’ve you makin’ a scene… not tonight… not now.” Gerald looked around at the others in his charge. “Now… I suggest ya take yourself on home until ya can conduct yourself proper.” He tipped his chin to the door.

“Fine…” Rhett rolled his eyes, already feeling warm and woozy, the alcohol going to work faster than even he had hoped. “I don’t need policin’ from you lot anyhow!” He shoved Teddy’s shoulder and then headed for the door.

“Rhett…” 

“Don’t waste your breath, Theodore.” Rhett waved dismissively over his head as he ducked down the hallway and out the backdoor.

The sky Rhett stood under began to twinkle, the first of the evening’s stars beginning to fleck the deepening blue. He kicked a stone under his foot, grinding the toe of his shoe into the dirt he’d uncovered, cursing under his breath. His behaviour would have him owing apologies, but he was in no condition to offer them now. He hopped up over the low rock wall and headed for the creaking steps that led to his flat above the pub.

Once inside his flat, Rhett collapsed against the back of the door, sinking into the floor beneath him, his legs outstretched, head hanging, hands pooled in his lap. His muddled mind settled only on images and thoughts that ripped at his heart, of catastrophe and anguish, each scenario more devastating than the last. Loss was far too easy to imagine, all those wounds so easily torn open to bleed freely.

His modest flat was piled high with the reminders of what life could so easily take, what could be ripped away. He’d disposed of most everything he owned before leaving his old life behind. But in the corner, a worn and weathered leather case leaned against the wall. Inside, his mother’s cello had sat unplayed since her passing. On a high shelf, the only photograph he had of his father sat next to a vase of wilted primrose. They were his mother’s favorite and Rhett could never bear to throw them away until he could replace them each spring.

So much in his life had been changed, tainted, forever altered by loss and grief. And so he feared what would shift and give way if his wounded soul were to take another blow. So, when he finally looked up from his lap and was confronted by Link’s hat hanging from his bedpost, his heart sank into his stomach.

Rhett got up slowly, unsteady on his feet, the bourbon flooding his veins only partially to blame. He reached out hesitantly, plucking the hat from its perch. He ran his thumb over the brim, traced the lines of the golden eagle that decorated its front. Would this too be a memorial left to collect dust, the only remnant left behind? As Rhett held the hat to his chest, his eyes drifting closed, every moment he’d shared with its owner flashed in his mind like a moving picture show, cruel and unrelenting.

The images carried with them sensation, warmth and affection. It felt as though he could reach out and touch the memories, but they couldn’t be further from his grasp. His eyes began to well, a tear spilling over the brim and running down his cheek.

He threw the hat onto his bed, wiping his cheek roughly with his rolled sleeve. He hated crying; letting them out meant letting _it_ in. He was tired of tears, his life having been so full of them already.

“God damn it!” He spun around knocking a small pile of books from his nightstand, leaving an oil lamp teetering in the wake of his sudden rage. “I hate this!” he hollered, stepping into the small kitchen and ripping open a cupboard door, and then another.

“Where is it?” He shoved plates and mugs aside, some of them clattering onto the countertop. “Where the fuck is it!?” he screamed, kicking open the lower cabinet whose door never hung quite right. A bottle of gin toppled out onto the floor.

  


_**September 8, 1940: Tadcaster, Yorkshire, UK.** _

Rhett wasn’t sure what exactly had woken him and, for the briefest of moments, he thought he’d escaped the wrath of the alcohol he’d consumed. But his head pounded at the temples and the light coming through his only window was glaringly bright, even through drawn curtains. His mouth and throat were parched, dry and raw. At his feet, the gin bottle lay empty.

As he stood up, the room began to spin, his stomach turning with it. He swallowed back a wave of nausea as he stumbled to the wash basin and drank the last of the clean water from the pitcher. It spilled over his chin and ran down his chest, soaking the front of his shirt.

He threw on a jacket and made his way down the stairs. In his experience, the only cure for the sickness he’d self-inflicted was behind the bar downstairs.

“Don’t you look a right sight,” Gerald huffed, tossing a small bag of trash into the bin by the back door.

Rhett ignored him, stepping into the backlot and leaning against the wall.

“I thought I’d ‘ave to send someone up there last night, ya know?” Gerald untied his apron and tossed it over his shoulder.

“I’m fine.” Rhett rubbed at his eyes, stretching out the kink in his neck that sleeping in a chair had earned him.

“But are ya though, lad?” Gerald pulled cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it, then offered one to Rhett.

Rhett smiled weakly, accepting the offer. He drew in a lung of smoke and let it burn all the way down, holding it in his lungs until they ached for air. Rhett breathed out a thick, grey cloud and gestured in thanks.

Gerald nodded and the two stood silently as the charred ends of their cigarettes grew longer. Rhett was the first to extinguish his under his shoe.

“I know you’re probably thinkin’ you’ll find refuge from whatever’s on your mind in there.” Gerald pointed to the pub. “But I’d wager you got a better chance there.” He pointed over Rhett’s shoulder to the church.

Rhett knew where he was pointing and couldn’t help the derisive huff that escaped through his nose. He’d not set foot in a church since his mother’s funeral. What did God have to offer him? Wasn’t he an abomination? If there was a God, he’d certainly never done Rhett any favours.

“Give it some thought.” Gerald patted his shoulder. “Service starts just after eleven.”

As Gerald headed back inside, Rhett was sure heard the latch of a lock. He smiled, turned, and hopped up onto the wall, letting his legs hang.

The church was modest, as far as churches go. It was unassuming, suiting the small village where it sat. Its steeple was weathered, some of the shingles hanging loose, others missing entirely. But its stained-glass windows were vibrant in the morning light.

The surrounding grounds were well-kept, tidy and manicured, the headstones in the adjacent cemetery free of moss and lichen. Rhett watched as several villagers made their way down the lanes, some hand-in-hand, children in tow, others wandering alone, most dressed in their Sunday best.

Rhett thumbed his beard and looked down at his own haggard garb, at his stained shirt and loose-fitting trousers. He was as inappropriately dressed for church as one could be, but perhaps Gerald had been right. What did he have to lose?

He hopped down from his perch, dusting off his trousers before crossing the cobbled road. As he approached the steps, its bells began to ring out the hour, just as it always had. Before today, Rhett had never really heard them. They’d become background noise, an easily ignorable nuisance. But today they cut through the air and goose-pimpled his skin.

Rhett removed his hat as he filed into the church behind several parishioners, his grizzled appearance giving a few members of the congregation pause. He crumpled into a pew in the back corner, trying to make himself as invisible as possible. It wasn’t long before the vicar stood before them, wearing a violet accented robe and emerald sash.

The vicar addressed them all and Rhett largely ignored the prompts to prayer, only barely managing to get to his feet when it was strictly required. He was growing irritated with the propriety of it all and actually preparing to abandon the ridiculous notion of salvation in the house of the Lord when the vicar’s words cut through the fog.

“Life is not without sacrifice,” he began, stepping out from behind his podium. “And when a life is taken, sacrificed unto the Lord in the service of others, we are beholden to honour it here in His presence.”

Rhett’s entire body began to tingle, his heart racing in his chest. His lungs were tight and hot, the air trapped inside feeling as though it had been lit on fire.

“Last night, over the fields of Yorkshire, the enemy laid claim to the life of a young man.” The vicar’s gaze shifted to the open doors. “A man who’d volunteered that life in service of righteous good.” He moved back to stand before his Bible. “We shall forever be grateful for his sacrifice and hold this brave American, who flew as an Eagle, in our prayers.”

The words stabbed, driving into the last of Rhett’s resolve. He collapsed into himself, sight and sound fading into the background of sorrow. Rhett’s addled mind honed in on the sparse details he heard, and regardless of their ambiguous nature, there were only so many pilots they could describe.

Rhett sat deflated and broken, unmoving through the hymns and prayers that followed. The propriety of the service was secondary to the feeling of uncertainty and loss. At the conclusion of the final prayer, the others rose from their seats and spoke softly to one another as the vicar made his way to the door to stand and offer his salutations to the departing congregation.

Gerald, who had been one of the last to enter, was among the last to leave. He leaned against the last pew where Rhett sat. “Fine service, sir.”

The familiar voice pulled Rhett’s focus, hauling him out of the haze of his distraught and confused thoughts.

“Gerald. How many times have I told you to call me Tom?” the vicar smiled, resting his hand on Gerald’s shoulder.

“Oh… a few I’d think,” Gerald chuckled, drawing in a chest-swelling breath. “It’s a real shame, that young fella.”

Rhett squinted at the mention.

“Yes. Quite,” the vicar said, sighing before continuing on. “I’ve been asked to conduct a short service at the base tomorrow evening.”

Gerald hummed in reply.

“He’d only just arrived… a couple of weeks ago, as I understand it.”

Rhett’s eyes widened, every muscle tense.

“Oh?”

It took every ounce of self-control Rhett could muster not to jump to his feet and demand a name.

“Mmm.” The vicar rocked on his heels. “The boy’s name was Evans… Garrett Evans.”

Relief was instantaneous, an immeasurable weight lifted from his chest, allowing his breath to come wholly and fully for the first time since the alarm had begun to sound. “It wasn’t Link... It wasn’t Link… It wasn’t him,” Rhett whispered to himself. But relief was short-lived, the spoken name taking root. “Oh, Link…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me through this... I know it's been a long road and I can't tell you what it means that there are people out there dedicated to this fic. Thanks so much for your support, comments, and kudos. They mean the world!
> 
> RTR <3


	16. Under a Shifting Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Recommended Listening:**   
>  [Waiting - Aquilo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sRlOHhfFNrw)   
>  [Bruises - Lewis Capaldi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CR-Gz3FvxnQ&feature=youtu.be)   
>  [You There - Aquilo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LlefHgF0kPA)

_**September 9, 1940: Tadcaster, Yorkshire, UK.** _

Rhett stood at his open window, wisps of steam rising up from his cup of tea, the rich aroma of bergamot flooding his senses. The sun had not yet risen above the horizon, but its soft glow had begun to change the colour of the sky. He took a long sip, draining the last drops of Earl Grey before setting the cup down on the window ledge. He breathed in the cool autumn air, taking a long look over the streets and leas.

He’d slept away much of the day before; his pounding head had demanded rest, and the weight lifted had allowed him to indulge it. But today he had agreed to work a double shift at the brewery. It was a way of killing time more than anything else, to eat up the hours in the day between dawn and dusk.

Loss and grief were emotions that Rhett was more familiar with than any man of his age should be. He knew the ache that would be weighing down Link’s heart, the sting of the tears that ran down his cheeks. Rhett rubbed at his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. Frustration beginning to build yet again, the feeling of impotence was overwhelming. But it wasn’t his place to impose, or to force Link’s hand.

Rhett shook his head, grabbed his jacket from the bedpost, and headed down the stairs.

The air was chilled, heavy with morning dew that clung to blades of grass and petals of fall blossoms. Rhett scuffed his feet over gravel and stone as he made his way through the narrow streets between his flat and the brewery. He could already smell the shift in the air, bitter and sweet notes of boiling hops and barley. Most found the combination to be unpleasant, but Rhett had always taken a certain comfort in the constancy, reliability.

Busy hands, that’s how Rhett distracted himself, how he always had. The minutes dragged when he was alone with only his thoughts. He’d found it entirely impossible to sit at his mother’s bedside without a stick to whittle, or with pen and paper to compose. He found a similar comfort in his job at the brewery, a certain meditation in monotony.

As Rhett approached the open receiving doors of the brewery, the rising sun warmed his back, the yellow leaves of the surrounding alders glowing brightly in the morning rays. He closed his eyes, letting the heat spread across his back and crest his shoulders. He looked up at the soft wisps of clouds that were now painted across brightening blues. 

He turned around, looking back the way he had come, fighting every urge and instinct to abandon his commitment and go to Link, to offer what little comfort he could. If he could only just see him, to see that he was okay, to show him he wasn’t alone. But doubt kept Rhett’s feet firmly planted.

It wasn’t Rhett’s place to insinuate himself into Link’s life. In fact, Link’s absence the night the were meant to meet in Church Fenton was still without explanation. Perhaps his face was the last Link would wish to see, especially now. Rhett sighed in resignation, and loped through the doors.

Bottles rattled down the line behind him, but his morning started with hauling kegs. A few lorries had already arrived, their drivers impatiently waiting for their orders to be loaded. Rhett’s back groaned with the heft of every barrel, but he was never one to complain. He worked through the ache, through the sting and burn, a welcomed and wanted distraction. He began to hum along to the rhythm of the factory sounds.

Music had a way of finding Rhett; he heard it in the rustle of the wind, in the patter of rain, and even in tink of glass bottles and the rumbling machines. Each distinct component began to weave together in his mind, his fingers drumming out a synchronizing rhythm on the kegs he carried and rolled. Without conscious effort his quiet humming grew louder, the melodic notes slotting themselves into a composition that now filled the room.

“Oy! Music man!” his supervisor called from the door of his office in the loft.

Rhett stood up, stopping the rolling keg in front of him with his boot and wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Yessir?”

“The ale ain’t got ears ya know?” He shook his head. “Pull your head out your arse, yeah?”

Rhett smiled, offering a nod. “Sure thing, boss.”

One of his co-workers gave his shoulder a pat. “He’s just ornery about the stick up ‘is own arse,” he winked. “It’s break time anyhow.”

The others gathered around an overturned cable reel and plunked down their paper sacs of luncheon. Rhett settled himself on a cracked keg in the corner of the graveled yard. His stomach growled with hunger, but it would go unanswered. Instead, Rhett lit a cigarette.

The sun beamed overhead, the mid-day air warm. The hours were passing more quickly than Rhett could have hoped, but wishing away the day, assuming that its end might carry with it relief from his plagued thoughts and runaway worry, was naive at best. He was likely to lay his head to rest tonight as clouded and unsure as it had been when he woke.

The thoughts he’d been trying to keep at bay came flooding in. If uncertainty was the result of Rhett’s refusal to be selfish, then he would suffer it. And it would be selfish at its heart, to go to him. Wouldn’t it? Rhett flicked away the ashes of is cigarette. Link would find him when he was ready. Wouldn’t he? Rhett sighed, scratching away an itch on the back of his neck. He was doing the right thing in giving Link space and time… wasn’t he?

“Gah! Shit!” Rhett’s cigarette had burned down, the hot embers searing his knuckles. He stamped it out under his foot and sucked the heat from his skin.

“Dammit…” Rhett groaned. He pulled off his hat and tugged at his hair, fingers laced between strands. He looked up at the sun until the sting forced his eyes closed, leaving splotches of blue to dart across his closed lids. “If I could just see you—”

“Tea time’s over!” his supervisor called from the open door. “Gabbin’ like a buncha...” he muttered as he ducked back inside.

Rhett sighed, rolling his eyes as he hopped down from his perch. He looked down at the stinging skin of his hand, thumbing over the wound. “I need to see you…” he breathed.

Distraction was harder to find in the hours that followed — the levee had been breached. Rhett bounced on his heels and fiddled with a string that hung from one of the buttons of his shirt as he waited for bottles to fill under taps.

“I’ll just go,” he muttered under his breath as he capped and crated the full bottles, hauling each of them away to be labeled and stacked. But as he worked — sweat rolling down his forehead, his muscles aching — Rhett’s mind was far-afield, traveling back to the base, squeezing through the gap in the fence, and creeping among the shadows to the hangar where he’d last seen Link. He could do it again, sneak onto the base as Link had shown him. It didn’t matter that he knew not where to look, or that he could so easily be discovered. The ghosts of possibility teased and toyed with his resolve to remain, to wait.

“I’m going,” Rhett said aloud, letting a crate fall a little too roughly to the floor. “I’m going.”

The rest of his shift passed in a blur, a haze of cursory nods and and cordial response, aching feet and splintered fingers. You see, the mind has this amazing capacity to drift — as it does on a long walk or train ride, or when your distracted thoughts carry you miles away. Before you know it, you’ve wound up in a place without knowing entirely how you came to be there. And, as Rhett stepped out of the brewery, his work day done, wiping his brow and stretching out his back in the soft glow of twilight that followed a setting sun, he was as near a time traveler as any man could be.

He sighed, deep and full, committed to bringing his plans to fruition, no matter the outcome. He would skirt Teddy’s dissuasion if need be; he’d walk if he had to — barefoot over shattered glass, it it came to it. He was going to see Link.

A few steps into the street; that was all he’d managed when he heard it.

“Rhett!” Teddy hollered, rounding the corner and running toward him. “You... you… it’s...” he panted, coming to a stop, doubling over on himself, hands on his thighs.

Rhett’s heart leapt up into his throat.

Teddy tried to catch his breath, drawing in deeply and holding up a hand. “You have to…. It’s...—”

“God dammit, Teddy! Spit it out!” Rhett boiled over, grabbing Teddy’s shoulder and shaking him.

“Link.”

Rhett’s eyes widened as his entire body began to tingle.

“It’s Link… he’s at… at The Thistle…” Teddy laboured through his breathlessness, gasping as he stood erect.

Teddy’s words took a moment to settle in and, in the pause, Rhett’s heart fluttered. “He’s here...” His cheeks rounded over a growing smile.

“Yeah. He’s here,” Teddy said, drawing in a deep breath. “And he’s tapped a keg all to ‘imself, by the looks of him.”

Rhett was no stranger to seeking solace at the bottom of a bottle, and if any person was in need of escape right now, it was surely Link.

“I’d reckon he came lookin’ for you.”

Rhett’s eyes wandered, his mind racing as his body played catch-up. “Come on!” he said, stumbling into a jog.

“Great,” Teddy groaned. “More runnin’.”

They sprinted through the streets, Rhett leading the way. The darkness had come on quickly, the night enveloping the sky, the rising moon casting tall shadows through the streets.

As Rhett skidded into the brick wall of an alley, the sounds of commotion carried through the air, shattering glass and raised voices, grunts and busted furniture.

“Who else is in there!?” Rhett yelled over his shoulder as they darted out into the road across the street from the pub.

Teddy stopped, panting at Rhett’s side. “Donaldson brothers,” he coughed. “A few others.”

Rhett gritted his teeth, balled his fists, and charged across the street through the pub door.

Hollers and yells echoed around the room as the door was flung open. Gerald was calling out from behind the bar, hands gesturing wildly, face beet red around his white facial hair. Every other body in the pub was gathered around a broken-legged table lying on its side. The gaps between knees and brief partings of the crowd only allowed for short glimpses of the tousle of bodies on the floor.

“Grrr off me!” one of the Donaldson brothers grunted, his body pinned.

“Think you can waltz in here and start throwin’ punches, do ya?” the other brother said, reeling back and kicking. 

There was a groan and a reshuffling of bodies before — among a hail of cusses, grunting, and commotion — a voice screamed out.

“Fuck you!”

Rhett’s mouth went dry as Link’s voice cut through the din, immediately recognizable even in anger. Rhett rushed forward, with Teddy at his side, and shoved through the crowd.

“You’re an ignorant piece of shit!” Link growled, gritting his teeth before spitting in face of the man that now sat on his chest, pinning his wrists to the floor.

“Ho, ho, ho,” John Donaldson closed his eyes and wiped his chin on the shoulder of his shirt. “You’re gonna wish you hadn’t done that,” he said, flashing a wicked grin to his brother.

“Get off of ‘im!” Rhett lurched forward and grabbed John by the scruff of his shirt, throwing him against a support beam, jamming his forearm under John’s chin as the jeers and hoots of encouragement from the others quieted.

“What in the blue hell do you think you’re doin’, McLaughlin?” Eric Donaldson grabbed Rhett’s arm and yanked him back.

Teddy, who was standing just behind Eric, reached an arm around his neck, pinning him in a chokehold. “Ya know,” Teddy said through gritted teeth, speaking into Eric’s ear. “I think everyone’s ‘eard just about enougha your lip for one night.”

Link coughed, holding his ribs as he got up from the floor.

John lurched under Rhett’s hold, his brow furrowed, puffing air out through his nose and clenching his fists, the skin around his swollen eye darkening.

“Assholes,” Link slurred, stumbling on unsteady legs and wiping a small trickle of blood from the corner of his lips.

“Why you little—”

“Open your mouth again…” Link hiccuped, “and I’ll knock out the few teeth you’ve got left!” he lunged at John over Rhett’s shoulder.

“Link… don’t—” Rhett said, moving to stand in his way.

“Lemme go!” Eric struggled against Teddy’s hold on him. “Go back where ya came from, you filthy little bog-trotter!”

Teddy rolled his eyes, tightening his grip.

“This ‘eres no place for you or these damn yanks!” John scoffed, tipping his chin to Link.

“That’s enough!” Gerald bellowed, stepping around the bar, moving to stand amongst them. “Let those two idiots go!” He tugged at Rhett’s shirt. “I want you out. The whole lot of ya!”

Rhett’s clenched his jaw, shoved a final time — watching as John’s face began to flush purple — before releasing his hold.

“Theodore…” Gerald said, clear and stern, “Now.”

Eric gasped in a lung of air as Teddy released him, closing his hands around his neck, stumbling to his brother’s side.

“Come on,” John said, sneering as he grabbed his brother by the arm and dragged him toward the door. “Plenty o’ other places to find a pint.”

“Good riddance,” Link muttered under his breath as the bell over the door rang out their retreat. He wavered for a moment and then tripped over the leg of a stool, falling to his knees on the floor.

“Link!” Rhett dashed to his side.

Link sat back on his heels. “Hi Rhett…” he smiled, blinking slowly, looking up with soft eyes.

Rhett reached for him, a hand on his shoulder for the briefest of moments before it was shrugged away.

“You can’t…” Link laughed, hollow and desperate, lacking the warmth of joy; it was an ill-fitting disguise for the anguish it masked. “You can’t help me.” He crumpled into himself.

Rhett stood over Link, huddled on the floor, the soft sounds and mutterings of a man lost in sadness and drink falling from his lips. Though heartache was nothing new to Rhett McLaughlin, this ache ran deep. Watching someone suffer through the burden of loss, someone he cared for, it etched lines on his bones.

“Out.” Gerald said, hefting the table upright, and tucking in the loose tail of his apron. “And take him with you,” he said, shaking his head, pity clear and in arch of his brow as he stepped around them and back behind the bar.

Rhett pressed his lips together, sighing as he crouched down next to Link. ”A little help, Teddy?” Rhett said, slinging one of Link’s limp arms around his own neck as Teddy rushed to take the other.

Link resisted, struggling weakly to free himself from their hold, muttering in protest as Rhett attempted to sooth him. But his remaining strength quickly waned, and his weight fell slack in their arms.

They walked Link out into street, the air cooling on the sweat beaded across Rhett’s brow.

“Now what?” Teddy asked as the door swung closed behind them.

Rhett looked the street up and down before his eyes fell on Link, his head lolling onto Rhett’s shoulder. “I don’t…” Rhett trailed off, his eyes catching a glimpse of crimson on the shoulder of Link’s shirt that peeked out from his jacket.

“What’s wrong?” Teddy asked, adjusting his grip.

Rhett pulled Link’s jacket aside revealing the bulge of a blood-sopped bandage that covered his shoulder. “Upstairs,” Rhett said urgently, attempting to lead the way.

Teddy stood fast, brow raised as Rhett turned to him. “You really think that’s the best—”

“He’s bleeding, Teddy.” Rhett pulled back Link’s jacket again.

“I’m fine—”

“You’re not fine, mate.” Teddy’s eyes were wide, his hand wrapped tightly around Link’s wrist. “Upstairs it is.”

The narrow passage to the foot of the stairs was made an even tighter squeeze as it was partially blocked by a motorcycle parked along one wall. They edged by it and made their way up to Rhett’s flat; all the while Link’s dragging feet caught on runners and the warped boards of an uneven landing.

“I said… I’m fine.” He looked up at Rhett, his brow crinkled and eyes sorrowful, conveying just the opposite.

Teddy took Link’s weight as Rhett palmed the pockets of his trousers for his key.

“What the hell happened to him?” Rhett asked, fumbling frantically to open the door. “Did they do this to you?” Rhett shoved open the door and turned back to see Link shake his head and push Teddy away, leaning back against the rail.

“Bullet.”

Rhett’s eyes widened. “You… you were...” Rhett’s throat tightened as the blood rushing through his veins nearly deafened him.

Link reached into his jacket, covering his wounded shoulder with his hand. “At least I’m not…” he pulled out his bloodied hand and stared at his trembling fingers before his knees began to buckle.

Rhett rushed forward, catching Link under the elbow and helped him inside. He sat Link down on the edge of the bed with Teddy’s help.

Link tried to stand up, but Teddy kept a hand on his shoulder as Rhett rummaged in a cupboard for clean cloth and antiseptic.

“Get your hand offa me!” Link swatted Teddy away. “I can take care of myself!” Link’s voice was raised, but it wavered around the edges.

“Easy there, ace,” Teddy said, moving to lean against the doorframe.

Cupboard doors and drawers slammed several times before Rhett found a few strips of torn cloth left over from the last time he’d bandaged one of his own wounds.

Link struggled to rip himself free of his leather jacket before tossing it aside, wincing as it strained his shoulder.

“Dammit.” Rhett stood, picking up the empty gin bottle from the table and throwing it into his armchair.

“Here.” Teddy reached into his pocket, pulling out a flask. “This oughta do the trick.” He tossed it to Rhett.

“Thanks,” Rhett smiled before his eyes went wide.

“What?” Teddy asked, turning his attention back to Link. “Well then!” Teddy drew in a sharp breath. “I think that’s my cue!”

Link was pulling up his shirt, the sleeve catching on the bandage over his shoulder, his stomach bare.

“I’m gonna trust that you’ve got it from here.” Teddy stood next to Rhett and gave his shoulder a pat.

“Uh… yeah.” Rhett’s eyes were fixed on Link’s continued struggle to remove his soiled shirt. He shook himself, clearing the fog of distraction, and looked over at Teddy. “Yeah… I’ll just get him cleaned up and let him rest,” Rhett said, stepping past Teddy to flick on a hot plate to warm what was left of a pot of water from his morning tea. “Thanks for lendin’ a hand.” Rhett fussed with the dial, nervously wrapping the cotton bandage around his fingers.

Teddy nodded. “Anytime.” He gave Rhett’s shoulder a squeeze and then moved to stand in the doorway, hands braced between its frame. He tipped his chin to Link. “Good luck.”

“Thanks again, Teddy.” Rhett gave him a final nod and then set the bandages and flask on the end of the bed. He hurried across the room, grabbing his wash basin and pitcher, and then moved to the window, plucking a clean rag from a line that hung outside just below the ledge.

“Rhett?”

Rhett spun around to see that his door was not only empty, but closed, and that Link had somehow managed to tangle himself in his own shirt, an arm through the neck opening. “Oh Link.” Rhett was unable to help the soft smile that crept across his face.

Link grunted in frustration, his hair in total disarray, and his glasses askew.

“Here…” Rhett knelt down in front of him, laying a palm on the hot skin of Link’s upper arm. His muscles were tense as he tugged to free himself. “Let me help,” Rhett soothed.

The tension in Link’s shoulders seemed to ease, the fabric across them not quite as tight as it had been as Rhett eased Link’s arm free, slipping his shirt off over his head and setting it on the floor.

“Thank you,” Link whispered, languid blinks and a sweep of dark hair hiding the blue of his eyes.

Though the bloodied bandage was in need of attention, Rhett couldn’t help but admire Link’s sharp angles for just a moment, the lines of his collar bones and shoulders just as square as his jaw. “Let’s get that cleaned up. Yeah?” Rhett patted Link’s knee and tried to stand.

“Don’t.” Link grabbed his hand. “Please... don’t leave me.”

“It’s okay, Link.” Rhett squeezed the hand in his. “I’m not going anywhere.” He ran his thumb over the back of Link’s knuckles. “But we need to get that cleaned up.”

Link slowly released Rhett’s hand, allowing him to go to the counter and attend to the now boiling pot of water. He poured it into the ceramic pitcher and set it down next to him as he kneeled on the floor.

“Is it okay if I…” Rhett reached tentatively for the tucked end of the bandage near the pit of Link’s arm.

Link nodded, raising his elbow.

Rhett was gentle, careful in every movement as he freed the sticky wrap. He balled it in his hand, reaching over Link’s shoulder to pass it into the other hand and then back again until only a thin layer of cotton batt was left covering the worst of Link’s wound.

The skin was raw and red, a few small streaks of purple spreading out from the edges that peeked out from behind the last of the bandage. Rhett turned away, taking out his nerves on his lower lip, chewing at the chapped skin around its edge.

“It didn’t hurt, you know...” Link said, quiet and calm.

Rhett winced at the thought, imaging the sound of gunfire he’d heard. One of those bullets had pierced through Link’s skin, had ripped into him. It could very well have taken his life. Just a few inches lower? A lung; a few more? A heart.

“I… I didn’t even feel it.”

“That seems impossible.” Rhett poured water into the basin, letting the rag sink to the bottom as steam rose up from the bowl. “But if it’s true…” He tested the water with the tips of his fingers, pulling back as it scalded his skin. “I’m glad of it.” He turned his attention to the last of the bandage that had worked its way into torn stitches, blood slowly trickling down Link’s chest.

Link touched his finger to the gathering drop on his pec. “I didn’t know... not until I saw… saw the blood…” he pulled the last of the cotton from his skin, calling out in pain as it ripped away.

“Don’t!” Rhett plunged his hand into the basin and squeezed water from the cloth, covering the now freely bleeding hole in Link’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t have done that,” Rhett sighed, applying pressure.

“There’s lots I shouldn’ta done…” Link’s words slurred together, but the sentiment was clear.

“Here…” Rhett reached behind him and adjusted the only pillow he had. “Lie back.”

Link shuffled back against the headboard and Rhett took his hand, placing it over his own and the cloth.

“Hold that there… pressure,” Rhett said, slipping his hand free and gathering the wraps and flask from the foot of the bed.

“So much blood,” Link whispered. “There was… so much blood.” His voice broke, his words far away.

“Shhh,” Rhett soothed, placing the full basin on the bed next to Link and replacing the warm cloth with dry wadded cotton. He rinsed the blood from the cloth, watching it spread through the water, staining cracks in the white ceramic. “You should rest…”

Link’s eyes fluttered, his chest rising and falling slowly under Rhett’s hand as he wiped the blood from his skin.

“That’s it… just rest…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and, as always, for your patience. Comments and kudos are welcome and much appreciated! 
> 
> RTR <3
> 
>  **Art for This Chapter:**  
>  By: Magicbubblepipe  
> [Rhett](http://remembertherandler.tumblr.com/post/164121123900/magicbubblepipe-a-little-doodle-of-rhett-from-two)


	17. Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Recommended Listening:**   
>  [Easier - Mansionair](https://youtu.be/Ja9IUKElT5w)   
>  [Cello Concerto: Third Movement - Elgar](https://youtu.be/cwMEleKudMI)   
>  [Embody Me - Novo Amor](https://youtu.be/dXEyiCId1vI)   
>  [RY X - Only](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bbokXheXhxY)

_**September 10, 1940: Tadcaster, Yorkshire, UK.** _

Smells of a flickering gas lamp, hazy blurs of life emerging from the darkness. Rhett at his bedside, nose between the pages of a book. Details fading as quickly as they’d appeared, fraying around the edges, giving way to black.

Soft sounds of sleep-laden breathing, shapes coming into soft focus. Rhett slumped over, chest splayed out across the foot of the bed. Fingertips only just touching one another’s. A sweep of lashes, a flutter of a heart before sleep took hold.

Dull aches in his shoulder, skin warming in morning sun, dust glinting. Rhett shining in the glow, chest bare and wet, water beading down his back, dripping from a rag in his hand. Dirt, sweat, and blood washed away. An attempt to speak silenced by the beckoning call of rest.

A feeling more than anything, a sense not quite determinable. Rhett sitting in the corner, a cello between his knees, his fingers gliding silently over strings, another hand moving gracefully, as though wielding an invisible bow. Determined blinks and a sharper focus, details breaking through the fog: The sun cast clear shadows of leaves around the room. Rhett’s eyes were closed, his body swaying to notes only he seemed to hear.

With all of the will he could muster, Lincoln held his eyes open until the last of the soft haze around the edges of his vision ebbed away. He sat up, resting his weight on his elbows, and wincing as his shoulder protested the burden.

Rhett’s eyes shot open. “You’re up,” he said, getting to his feet and leaning the cello against the wall.

Lincoln nodded, sliding back to rest against the headboard. His head ached, pounding in concert with his heart. “How long was I out?”

Rhett stood and crossed the room, picking up a small glass of water from the table. “Hmm,” he mused, settling at the foot of the bed, one foot on the floor, the other folded under his thigh. “About fourteen hours, I’d say.” 

“Oh.” Lincoln looked to the window, to the early evening light filtering through the curtains.

“Here,” Rhett held out the glass of water. “You should drink this.”

“Thanks,” Lincoln smiled weakly, his cheeks warming. His lips were tight, dry and chapped along with his throat. He sipped the cool water and welcomed the relief it brought.

Rhett pressed his lips together in a soft smile as he ran his hand over his knee.

Lincoln finished the glass and moved to set it down on the nightstand when Rhett leaned forward to take it.

“Another?” Rhett asked.

Lincoln shook his head. “I’m okay, thanks.”

Rhett smiled and leaned over, setting the glass on the table.

Lincoln shivered, his skin cooled in the breeze that fluttered the curtains. He looked down over his body, only just realizing he was shirtless. “Oh, God…” He pulled the blanket up to cover himself. “I’m... so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Rhett reached out a hand, cupping Lincoln’s shin through the blanket. “It’s okay.” Rhett got up and pulled open the drawer of his dresser, selecting a folded grey shirt. “Here,” he said, setting the shirt on Lincoln’s lap. “Yours is a little… worse for wear.”

Lincoln let the blanket fall away. “Thank you… again.” He unfolded the shirt; the cotton was thin and soft, a garment well-worn.

”I tried to get the stain out.” Rhett gestured to the sink where Lincoln’s t-shirt was draped over the counter, the collar and shoulder smeared red.

Lincoln looked down at his freshly bandaged wound as he worked open buttons. “I must have been a sight…” he muttered, shaking his head as he slid on the shirt. He rubbed at his temples. “I don’t even… How did I get here?”

“You don’t remember, huh?” Rhett picked at his fingers, his knee bouncing.

“I don’t… I don’t know,” Lincoln said, struggling to coax the details of the night before from his mind.

“You came to the pub…” Rhett sidled a little closer.

Lincoln’s tongue glided over the slight swell of his lower lip, and the spark of a memory ignited in his mind. “Some kind of fight?” He began closing the buttons of the shirt that sagged across his chest, far too large for his much smaller frame.

Rhett’s head tipped to the side, his eye widening. “You could say that, yeah.”

Lincoln hid his face in his hands.

“You’re pretty scrappy, you know,” Rhett teased.

Hints of detail continued worming their way forward, faces and words spoken taking form and slotting into place. Lincoln closed his eyes, rubbing the sleep from them. “Seems to me I needed rescuing.”

“Ah…” Rhett let out a small laugh. “Well… ya did manage to get into it with a couple a boars, so I think that’s to be expected.”

Lincoln sighed. He wasn’t sure what exactly had happened, what was said or who he’d fought. He hadn’t even intended to end up at the Hart and Thistle when he left the base. He just needed to get away. But before he knew it, his wheels had carried him to Tadcaster. Perhaps it was inevitable, to be drawn there, to some sense of familiarity and promise of comfort.

Much of the evening before was still a jumbled mess of confusion, and perhaps it was better that way. But he did know one thing for sure. When he’d sat down at that bar — after finally mustering the courage to go inside — he was intent on seeing Rhett, and when he wasn’t there, idle hands and a ravaged mind had a way of indulging themselves.

“I’m sorry.” Rhett picked at the calloused skin of his fingers.

Lincoln reached for his glasses on the night stand.

“For your loss… your friend.”

Lincoln’s fingers began to tremble as he slipped his glasses on, a lump in his throat threatening to cease his breathing.

Rhett sat silently, tracing the lines of his own palm.

The rush of grief and ache was nearly unbearable. Lincoln held his jaw tight enough to crack a tooth, all the while holding back tears, tears he was tired of crying.

Rhett looked up from his lap, his lips pressed together in a frown. “I’m sorry… I should’ta said—”

“No,” Lincoln choked out. “It’s… it’s—” He looked to the open window and then back to Rhett. “Thank you.”

Rhett sat silently for a moment, his eyes warm, his mouth turned up in a gentle smile. “It’ll get easier... with time,” Rhett said softly before getting up and filling the kettle.

Lincoln watched as Rhett struggled to light the burner, the stove refusing to take the light.

Rhett lit a match and the stove came to life. He set two cups on the table and popped open a small tin of crackers.

“Will it?” Lincoln swallowed back the lump in his throat until it settled as a pit in his stomach.

“Yes.” Rhett pulled out a chair and gestured to it, offering Lincoln a seat at his table. “Eventually.”

Lincoln slid out from under the blankets, his vision blurring, dotted with flecks of light, as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Easy,” Rhett soothed, stepping closer placing a hand on Lincoln’s arm. “Nice and slow.”

Lincoln’s skin warmed under Rhett’s touch. He leaned into it, breathing deeply for the first time since he’d woken. Faint hints of lavender and tea leaves seemed to surround Rhett, and, through the curls of hair that hung over Rhett’s brows, Lincoln could see the same haunted expression that his own reflection wore.

“You’ve lost someone too...”

Rhett’s hand fell away, settling at Lincoln’s side on the bed. He turned his gaze to the floor.

Lincoln’s own hand crept tentatively over his knee, the tips of his fingers grazing the back of Rhett’s hand before covering it completely.

Rhett took in small, sharp breath and his eyes met Lincoln’s.

There was sadness there — one deeply seated, likely undetectable to most — but to Lincoln, it was as though the truth of it were etched in the lines and creases around Rhett’s eyes. But there was more there than ache. Something else resided along with it, a curious gleam in the flecks of green and grey. Lincoln had only a moment to appreciate it before the boiling kettle began to scream.

Rhett cleared his throat and stood. He turned to the kettle and poured the boiling water into a small cast iron teapot. “Let’s try to get a little grub into ya.” He sat down at the table. “Water closet’s just there, if ya need it.” Rhett pointed to a small door on the adjacent wall.

Lincoln got to his feet slowly, holding himself up on the post of the bed. “I… Uh... Thanks,” Lincoln smiled weakly before taking a few unsteady steps toward the door and closed himself inside. He caught his reflection in the small flecked mirror on the wall but couldn’t hold his own gaze for long.

  
  


Lincoln rinsed his hands and face in the basin and patted himself dry as he drew in a long breath. “I didn’t mean to pry…” he said, stepping back into the room, stopping just shy of the chair Rhett had pulled out in offer. “It’s just—” 

“Shh. Sit.”

Lincoln sat down, tucking himself into the table with a scrape of the chair’s legs.

Rhett pushed the tin of biscuits closer. “Eat.”

Lincoln snatched one, obediently taking a bite. It smelled of butter and tasted of faint hints of honey. It flaked apart satisfyingly in his mouth.

“Compliments of the lovely Valerie.” Rhett tapped the tin with his finger, smirking. “Teddy’s far better half…worries I’ll starve.”

Lincoln smiled around a mouthful of crumbs, following Rhett’s hands as he poured cups of tea, entranced by how delicate the movements were, precise yet soft.

The room fell into silence as wisps of steam drifted up from their cooling cups. Lincoln wasn’t sure what to say as he finished his mouthful of biscuit — not wanting to pry, and not yet willing to open up himself.

“Sorry if you usually take milk in your tea… I haven’t got any.”

“It’s fine,” Lincoln assured him, glad it was Rhett who’d broken the silence. “I like mine black, actually. Since you all seem rather averse to coffee over here,” he said, lifting his cup. “This here’s as near as I can get.”

Rhett chuckled, resting his lips on the brim of his cup. “If you’d rather drink coffee, then you’ve never had a decent cup of tea,” he teased, taking a sip.

Lincoln followed suit, closing his eyes as the rich flavour of gently steeped tea settled on his senses. “Mmmm,” he hummed before looking back to Rhett. “What?”

“Nothing,” Rhett grinned, dwarfing his cup in the cradle of his large palms, as barely a finger could fit through the handle.

Another quiet moment passed, more comfortable than the last, but lips still parted wordlessly, knees bounced, and fingers nervously drummed on thin china.

“He was a good lad, your friend.” Rhett spoke into his tea, his eyes not meeting Lincoln’s. “Honourable, and, from what I could tell, made of finer things than most.”

Rhett’s words were like salt on the wound, a dull ache turned searing burn. Lincoln shut his eyes, squeezing them closed as his grip on the cup in his hand began to falter, a slosh of hot tea spilling over his hand.

Rhett didn’t speak, but said more than words could ever manage with a single gesture. He cupped his hands under Lincoln’s, steadying it. Not removing the burden, only helping him to shoulder it.

In the throes of grief, the world seemed filled with reminders of what was lost, of what had been taken. Relief seemed stowed away, nearly unattainable, and even then, short-lived. So, when Lincoln opened his eyes and Rhett’s were waiting, for the briefest of moments, there was more in the world than the void left behind, and Lincoln felt the oppressive clouds beginning to thin.

“My mum,” Rhett breathed as he released Lincoln’s hand. He spun his cup on the saucer in front of him. “And pop.” He ran his hand over his beard and leaned back in his chair.

Lincoln swallowed, tipping his head in curiosity before realizing this was Rhett’s way of answering the question he’d never really even asked.

Rhett sipped his tea, holding the saucer in his other hand against his chest, his body slumped.

Lincoln was silenced in sympathy.

“My father passed in eighteen,” Rhett took in a breath through his nose. “I don’t even know that I remember him… I was so young,” he smiled weakly. “I often wonder if the images that flutter through my mind are more imagination than memory.”

“Rhett… I…” Lincoln had suffered loss, and knew the pain that followed in its wake; he was soaked in it, drowning. But a parent, both parents, that was something he could only imagine. The simple thought was enough to burden his heart with more weight than it could take.

“My mum never let him go… not really.” Rhett fiddled with the tags of the tea bags hanging from the pot. “She always talked of him as though he would walk through the door at any minute.”

Lincoln could have read every book ever written, every story ever told, and not one of them could have been so enrapturing as this. Rhett’s words always found a rhythm — his cadence was naturally melodic — but there was something more in these words. They were wrapped tightly in vulnerability, his soul laid bare for Lincoln to see.

“I don’t know that losing someone you love is somethin’ you ever get over… or that you’re even meant to.” Rhett said, his gaze drifting to the ceiling.

“A perpetually bleeding wound…”

“Oh… It’ll bleed like hell, but not forever.” Rhett looked to him again. “And what you’ll wear at the end of it all?” His brow piqued. “I’ve always thought of it more as a blemish, a scar.” He pointed to a small one on his arm. “It fades with time, but it’s always there.”

“A scar...” Lincoln touched the mark of Rhett’s skin with the pad of his thumb. “A reminder.” 

Rhett nodded.

Lincoln’s throat burned with the sob that he held tight inside. “I don’t want to forget him.”

“You won’t,” Rhett smiled, placing his hand over Lincoln’s, holding it against his skin. “You won’t.”

Lincoln’s skin warmed under Rhett’s touch. “I think he would’ve liked you.”

Rhett traced his finger over Lincoln’s knuckles, his touch tentative and tender. “I think I’d‘ve been lucky if he did.”

Sitting here — at this table, his hand in Rhett’s — the seemingly irreparable hole that had ripped through him felt smaller, like the edges were being stitched back together. The shell’s of Lincoln’s ears warmed and his heart thrummed.

Rhett’s hair shone in the last hints of the day’s sunlight, and the glittering flecks of grey in his green eyes stole the air from Lincoln’s lungs. His chest grew tight, the sting of breathlessness that followed forced his gaze from Rhett’s, needing a moment to collect himself.

Rhett cleared his throat. “Mind if I have a look at that?” he asked, his hand ghosting up Lincoln’s arm.

Lincoln watched Rhett’s fingertips creep up to his shoulder, his chair skidding along the floor as he moved a bit closer. Lincoln swallowed and then nodded, undoing enough of the buttons to shrug free the shoulder of his shirt.

Rhett scrutinized his handiwork, checking the fastenings and gently prodding the skin surrounding the bandage. “Does that hurt?”

“No,” Lincoln said, shaking his head.

“That’s good.” Rhett carefully slipped Lincoln’s shirt back over his bandage. “Infection’s nasty business.”

Lincoln felt the heat building in his cheeks and knew that it would be reflected in their colour. He turned his attention to the rest of the room. It was small, the ceilings rather low, especially considering Rhett’s height. The dormer over the window seemed the only place he’d be able to stand tall. The few shelves that lined the walls were stuffed full of papers and books, even more were piled high on the table nearest the corner where Rhett’s cello leaned. The instrument was graceful, the wood stained a rich cherry, possessing smooth lines and a delicate turn of the wood where it was pegged for tuning.

“It was my mother’s,” Rhett said, getting up from his chair and passing behind Lincoln, his hand grazing Lincoln’s shoulder.

“It’s beautiful,” Lincoln said, watching Rhett take the neck in his hand.

“That’s rather fitting…” Rhett thumbed a tuning knob, “So was she.”

“Do… do you play?” Lincoln stood and leaned against the bedpost.

“The cello?” Rhett asked. “Not since…” He leaned it back against the wall. “Not in a long while.”

The sheers danced out from behind the heavy curtain, the cool evening breeze tickling the pages piled around the room. Rhett was shielded for short moments behind the translucent fabric, his fingers moving delicately over the instrument in his hand.

Lincoln smiled, true and full, for the first time in days. He tried to ignore the pang of guilt in his heart and pushed away from the bedpost. He plucked a slip of sheet music from the top of a short bookcase. The page was well-worn, curled at the edges, several scribbled notes unreadable in the margins. At the top, no title, just a name: D. McLaughlin.

“McLaughlin?” Lincoln ran his thumb over the depression of the letters in the page.

“My mum.”

Lincoln’s head cocked to the side as the name took root. “Rhett McLaughlin.”

Rhett chuckled, letting the cello rest against the desk once again, moving closer. “McLaughlin,” he repeated, correcting Lincoln’s pronunciation.

Lincoln admired Rhett’s slow approach, the gentle slope of his shoulders as he stooped to avoid hitting his head on the low ceiling at the dormer’s edge. “I guess you just forget to ask when you’re surrounded by people with their names plastered across their chests.” Lincoln smiled, but he couldn’t help feeling guilty for never having asked Rhett’s surname sooner. It nipped at his insides.

Rhett grinned and pointed to the first few bars of music on the sheet. “Her compositions…” He traced the notes. “They’re distinct… it’s like a signature, you see.” He picked a second page from the stack. “This quarter note combination… and the climb that follows…”

Lincoln could see the warmth in Rhett’s expression, but it was dulled, like a mist hanging low over a rising sun. “She filled you with music.” He touched Rhett’s arm, fingers gliding over the folded roll of his shirt at the crook of his elbow.

“Hmm?” Rhett looked up at him from the pages in his hand.

“You hum,” Lincoln added. “When you’re…” Lincoln’s skin flushed with heat. “Distracted.”

Rhett carefully placed the pages with the others as his cheeks rounded. He looked to his feet, running his hand over the back of his head. “Yeah?”

“Mmhmm.” Lincoln fought against the images the filtered in from his subconscious — the feeling of Rhett’s body pressed to his, their lips warm on one another’s — but the ones that snuck through didn’t provoke the familiar feelings of self-hatred and disdain for his desire. This feeling was embarrassment and nerves, little more.

“What about you?” Rhett said, pulling him back to the present. “You play anything?”

“Me?” Lincoln stuttered. “No. Well... not aside from the forced piano lessons of my youth. I was god awful.”

Rhett smiled down at him. “You’ve got the fingers for it,” he said, pointing to Lincoln’s hands. “Octave reach.”

The sound of Lincoln’s now rapidly beating heart grew louder in his ears as Rhett’s fingers grazed his own. He swallowed the tension in his throat before he could manage to speak. “I guess I wasted my potential, huh?”

Rhett laughed quietly.

The warmth of Rhett’s presence surrounded him, the air was heavy with it, and Lincoln felt himself being drawn closer, the space between them growing smaller with every breath. He took a small step away, space to collect himself, letting something other than Rhett absorb his senses.

“Is all of this music?” Lincoln gestured to the other piles.

Rhett nodded, drawing in a deep breath and stretching out his chest.

Rhett’s name lept from corner of a page slipped in among others on the shelf. “Yours?” Lincoln said, reaching for it as Rhett spoke out weakly in protest.

“It’s nothing…”

The first few staffs had been scribbled over, scratched out and changed. A few messy notes lined the margins, just as they had on his mother’s work. The key was minor, the timing slow, the bass notes quiet and reserved, Lincoln knew that much.

“That’s the last thing I wrote…” Rhett’s voice trembled at the edges. “For her…”

The air shifted again as Rhett stepped up behind him; the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, the skin tingling under the wash of Rhett’s warm breath. He turned slowly, looking up at Rhett, the page in his hand pressed to his chest. “Could you play it for me?”

Rhett wavered, taking the smallest fraction of a step back. “I…” His fingers twisted in the chin of his beard. “I’m not… I’m not sure I—”

“It’s okay,” Lincoln said, placing his hand on Rhett’s shoulder. “Play anything.”

Rhett smiled. “Okay.”

The daylight had slipped away unnoticed and the room had grown dim, the lamplight doing little to brighten the far corner of the room. The sky outside the small window was inky black, tinged along the horizon with a thin line of colour.

Rhett reached into his pocket for his lighter and flicked it to life, holding it to the wick of a small candle on the shelf. He cupped his hand around the struggling flame, then set the candle on the table next to the cello. He slid his armchair out into the middle of the room. “Sit… if you like.”

Lincoln nodded his appreciation and settled into the chair’s worn grooves, running the palms of his hands over the fraying fabric that covered its arms as Rhett sat down behind the cello.

“I’m rusty.” Rhett’s cheeks flushed, his fingers pulling small sounds from the strings as he positioned the instrument between his knees. “It’s got a softer touch than the bass, you see.” He slid the bow out from behind his chair and rested it across his knee as he plucked at the strings and turned the pegs. “The notes are harder to find.” He pressed his finger to a string and drew the bow across it.

The sound was pure, resonant and full. A chill crept across Lincoln’s skin leaving a trail of goosebumps down his arm before it escaped through the tips of his fingers.

“She always liked Elgar…” Rhett said softly, tucking the instrument’s neck against his own.

The first notes were quiet, slow and unsure, but his bow soon found its mark and Lincoln was entirely entranced. He watched Rhett’s hands tease out the vibrato of the long notes, the cello calling out each phrasing, bar after bar falling in line with the last. The piece was emotional and elegant in its own right, rising and falling, leaving him breathless with an aching heart in the pauses. There was something extraordinary about the way Rhett lovingly coaxed the melody from the strings.

The candle’s flickering flame underlit his features and gleamed off the cherry finish. His brows piqued with the high notes, and his chin dipped into the valleys. He swayed with the curving arc of his bow; he’d become one with the music and the instrument he used to create it. It was the most beautiful thing Lincoln had ever witnessed.

As Rhett filled the room with the last resonating note, the breeze that had been teasing the curtains all evening came rushing in, forceful and brisk. Pages of sheet music flew into the air; the sound of the drifting sheets sounded like the flutter of wings.

“Oh!” Lincoln jolted to his feet to stop the rest from following suit as Rhett stood, rushing to the window and sliding it closed.

Lincoln got down on his knees and began collecting the fallen sheets, the ache in his shoulder now a mere nagging sting. He gathered more pages from under the table and chairs. Rhett crouched down, bouncing on his feet, plucking a few others out from under the bed, and as Lincoln reached out for the last sheet that had tucked itself under the chair he’d been sitting in, his fingers met Rhett’s.

In the instant their eyes locked, Lincoln felt like every molecule of his being was vibrating with the pounding of his heart. His hands acted of their own volition, the papers between them falling to the floor in front of him as he wrapped his arms around Rhett’s neck, pulling him down onto his knees.

Lincoln slid closer, pressing his body against Rhett’s as their lips met. It was a kiss that stole the breath from his lungs, and a welcomed flutter of his heart followed. He collapsed into the sensations that overwhelmed his clouded mind, reveling in the heat of Rhett’s mouth on his, in the bliss of Rhett’s palms slipping under the bottom of his shirt to rest on his waist, fingertips pressing into his skin.

Lips parted and slipped together. Rhett’s hands roamed across Lincoln’s back as Lincoln’s fingers wove into the curls on the back of Rhett’s neck. Soft sighs passed between shared breaths. Sheet music lay forgotten on the floor between them as they worshiped one another, on their knees and captivated, moving as one until Rhett’s body tensed.

“Link—” Rhett breathed against his cheek.

“Shh.” Lincoln pulled Rhett’s mouth back to his own and nipped the words from his lips.

Rhett’s hands slid along the back of Lincoln’s arms and cupped his elbows. He held Lincoln still, pulling back from the kiss. “Link… You’re hurt…” he said, his brows arching in concern.

Lincoln shook his head dismissively, his hands falling from Rhett’s cheeks to his shoulder. “It doesn’t hurt…”

“But I…” Rhett’s gaze fell to his lap. “I don’t want to—”

“Rhett,” Lincoln interjected, cupping Rhett’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet. “I want this…” he breathed, leaning in as their lips drifted back together. “I want you.”

Rhett didn’t deny him; after a short pause, he brushed Lincoln’s hair from his forehead and pressed a kiss to his skin, peppering them down Lincoln’s nose, nudging it with his own until he licked back into Lincoln’s mouth. He wrapped his arm around Lincoln’s body, spinning him around and shoving the chair out of the way with his free hand.

Rhett’s touch was passionate and tender, but calculated. He cradled wounds as he laid Lincoln out beneath him. His palm rested flat on the floor next to Lincoln’s ear, his knee between Lincoln’s own as the other straddled outside his thigh. “Are you sure?” he asked, his gaze soft.

For the first time in his life, Lincoln felt no shame at his desires. The excitement that rippled through his veins carried with it no trepidation, no self-reproach. With Rhett hovering above him, his lips still wet with their kiss, he’d never felt more certain of anything. Who he loves, who he wants: it’s not for him to decide, it is simply who he is.

“Yes.”

Rhett bowed closer and breathed out across Lincoln’s skin before his lips closed over the pulsing artery just below Lincoln’s jawline.

“Rhett…” Lincoln groaned, his fingers knotting into the fabric of Rhett’s shirt. He tugged Rhett’s body closer and moaned at the sensation of Rhett’s teeth dragging across the skin in the dip of his neck. The soft hairs of Rhett’s beard playing across his collarbone had his eyes rolling and lashes fluttering.

Rhett rolled his hips, holding most of his weight on a bent forearm, but allowing his body to press against Lincoln’s thigh and waist. He hummed into Lincoln’s skin and ghosted the tips of his fingers down his body under the baggy fabric of his shirt.

Rhett’s touch was electric; every grazing pass of skin on skin felt like a static shock. It was entirely overwhelming and like no other touch had ever been. Lincoln was hungry for more, desperate to explore the newness of this pleasure.

No one else had ever laid hands on his body this way, no one else had ever parted the buttons of his clothes, no one else’s fingertips had ever danced across his ribs and through the hair on his chest. The only pleasure he’d ever found in the flesh had torn at his heart and wracked him with guilt and regret. But this? This was euphoric.

“I thought I’d lost you…” Rhett whispered. “But here you are…” He nipped at the lobe of Lincoln’s ear and rolled onto his side, gently pulling Lincoln to his chest, his hand sliding the length of Lincoln’s body and coming to rest on the outside of his thigh.

Lincoln breathed him in, his palm flat across Rhett’s pounding heart. “I’m here,” Lincoln breathed, his cheek coming to rest against Rhett’s, his words falling on the shell of Rhett’s ear. “I want you to touch me...” he said thickly, covering the hand on his hip with his own and guided it down between their bodies. “Here.”

The audible sound of a thick swallow and the feeling of a quivering hand preceded a punishing kiss. Rhett’s body rocked against Lincoln’s, one hand cradling his neck and the other palming him through his trousers, his own hardness pressing against Lincoln’s abdomen.

Lincoln moaned into Rhett’s mouth and ran his own hand down Rhett’s torso to the buckle of his belt. He fumbled with it has Rhett’s grip on him loosened, his hand moving to slide Lincoln’s shirt free of his body, carefully maneuvering it over the bandage.

Rhett’s lips fell from his and pressed a trail of slow wet kisses down the side of Lincoln’s neck and along his collarbone, down his pec to the center of his chest. His hand gliding back down Lincoln’s bare skin, his fingers toying for a brief moment with the hairs below Lincoln’s navel before it slipped between fabric and skin.

Lincoln’s eyes blew open, gasping as his jaw falling slack, losing himself in the feeling of Rhett’s hand wrapped around him, skin touching skin.

“Is this okay?” Rhett asked, thumb tracing Lincoln’s jawline as breathed out across his chest. “Is this what you want?”

Lincoln couldn’t bring words to his lips, but he nodded, turning his cheek to press a kiss into the palm of Rhett’s hand. In the lustful splendor of Rhett’s touch, his own exploring hand had fallen idle, forefinger hooked in one of Rhett’s belt loops. The other was knotted into Rhett’s hair, nails digging into the skin on the back of his neck.

Rhett kissed back up to Lincoln’s mouth and captured it in his own, their tongues intertwining as Rhett’s hand slid the length of him, thumbing over the tip.

The air was heavy with the heat of their bodies and the sound of laboured breath. Lincoln’s hands began to roam once again as his impatience grew. He pawed at Rhett, trying to pull him closer, feeling every inch of his body that he could reach. He tore into Rhett’s shirt — scratching faint lines in the lightly-freckled skin of his chest — and reached behind him to lay his hand on Rhett’s round backside.

Rhett bucked under Lincoln’s touch, breaking their fervent kiss and staring at Lincoln through hooded eyes. He began to move his hand over Lincoln more quickly. “You’re beautiful…” he said, kissing the tip of Lincoln’s nose, his wrist twisting as Lincoln shifted in his hand. “You’re perfect.”

“Rhett!” Lincoln moaned, his head falling back as Rhett’s touch brought forth an overwhelming heat, the pressure in his gut beginning to build toward an end he’d never experienced at the hand of another, toward the bliss of a release he’d scarcely allowed himself to dream of. “Rhett… please…” he begged, his hand finally coming to rest over Rhett’s hardness.

Rhett groaned, puffing air through his nose as he moved his hand in time with the roll of his hips, rutting into Lincoln’s hand.

“I—” Lincoln looked down between them, at their bodies moving together, and he wanted more. “Let me touch you.”

Rhett nudged his way into the crook of Lincoln’s neck. “Okay…” he whispered, his hand slipping free only long enough to undo his belt and top button before he encircled Lincoln once again.

Nerves rippled through Lincoln’s limbs, leaving his fingers and toes to tingle. His throat tightened, his mouth going dry as he slid his trembling hand down Rhett’s body.

“You don’t have to—”

“I do.” Lincoln wrapped his hand around Rhett, losing himself in the ecstasy of shared experience. He mirrored Rhett’s touch, synchronizing with him and leaning into his chest, his cheek to Rhett’s heaving, sweat-dampened skin, listening to the pounding heart inside.

Lincoln was first to fall from the precipice — toppling over the edge at Rhett’s hand — groaning into his skin as he trembled through the throes of release, feeling Rhett's lips in his damp hair.

Rhett pushed against him, grinding his hips as his fingers dug into the soft skin of Lincoln’s waist and exposed hip before Rhett’s pace grow erratic and Lincoln felt the warmth of him spill over his hand.

They collapsed next to each other, panting and spent, Lincoln’s head resting over Rhett’s arm, their heaving chests flecked with sweat.

Lincoln wiped his hand clean on a discarded shirt and laid it over Rhett’s heart, feeling the rhythm of his breathing and the ever-slowing beating of his heart. He was laying in the arms of a man, a man he was now certain he loved. His world forever changed. As a smile graced his features, his vision blurred around tears that began to form in the corners of his eyes and trickled down his nose, pooling on Rhett’s chest.

“Link?” Rhett’s body tensed.

Lincoln looked up, wishing he could stem the flow of tears. “It’s...I’m ...it’s not—”

“It’s all right… shhh,” Rhett hushed, wrapping his arm around Lincoln’s shoulder, nestling Lincoln back into his chest. He slotted the fingers of his other hand together with Lincoln’s in the center of his chest as he pressed soft kisses into Lincoln’s dark hair. “It’s all right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bless every single one of you reading this. Honestly. I am so grateful for each of you and I hope that this chapter will serve as a small token of my appreciation for your patience and support.
> 
> Much love! 
> 
> RTR <3
> 
>  **Art for This Chapter:**  
>  By: Magicbubblepipe  
> [On their knees and over the moon](http://remembertherandler.tumblr.com/post/164156317225/magicbubblepipe-as-promised-some-art-for)  
> [Entwined](http://remembertherandler.tumblr.com/post/164189708670/magicbubblepipe-yalls-responses-are-really)  
> [Rhett playing his mother's cello](http://magicbubblepipe.tumblr.com/post/165310611490/at-the-urging-of-remembertherandler-im-posting)


	18. Mending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Recommended Listening:**   
>  [Dreaming of - Saile](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NQJzCsbm73c)   
>  [Make You Feel My Love - Sleeping at Last (Bob Dylan Cover)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8UkXdvh5Xa0)   
>  [Sky's Still Blue - Andrew Belle](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K6sMuNuBlQo)   
>  [Change It All - Harrison Storm](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dOOW95P8LB4)   
>  [Caterpillar - Mountains of the Moon](https://youtu.be/dpzYWrQ7J3Q)

_**September 11, 1940: Tadcaster, Yorkshire, UK.** _

The day came into focus in wisps of colour, warm golden hues blurring together at their edges. The air flowing in the open window was brisk, cool as it washed over the exposed skin of Lincoln’s arms and chest. He rolled onto his side only to find the other half of the bed vacant but still warm. He smoothed the wrinkles from the sheet with the flat of his hand.

“How d’ya like your eggs?”

Lincoln turned his attention to the small kitchenette where Rhett was busying himself at a hot plate.

Lincoln smiled as Rhett looked at him over his tea towel-covered shoulder. His hair was disheveled, curling across his brow and into his eyes. “Sunnyside up,” Lincoln said, sliding up the bed and resting his back against the headboard.

“Sunnyside up, eh?” Rhett tossed the egg back and forth between his hands. “I’ve gotta be honest with ya. She’ll be scrambled by the time I’m through.”

“Scrambled it is,” Lincoln laughed, running a hand through his hair.

Rhett winked, turning back back to the kettle that billowed with steam as he cracked the egg on the edge of the cast iron skillet.

A deep and contented sigh expanded Lincoln’s chest. He held his hand up in front of the flowing, sheer curtains. The sun lit the hairs of his arm, forming a halo of soft light. He turned his hand over and studied the creases of his palm, then closed his eyes and brought the tips of his fingers to his cheek, tracing across his lips and down his neck. All of the places where Rhett’s lips had pressed to his skin.

The evening before was a blissful blur of sensations, and yet he felt as though he could recall, with stark clarity, every single moment: Rhett’s hands lying across the small of his back — the sensation of which still nipped at his skin — or the sound of caught breath and softly murmured adulations that still echoed from the corners of the room. The profound and inexorable shift that had been set into motion the moment they’d first met, had cemented itself; the truth of it all now etched so deeply it would never be sanded smooth. And these new lines, these tattoos on his soul, Lincoln welcomed each one of them.

“There’s some fresh clothes in the chair there.” Rhett gestured behind him. “Teddy’s got a convenient habit of leavin’ his laundering for others to manage.” He turned around, brushing the hair back from his eyes. “I think those oughta fit.”

“Thanks,” Lincoln smiled as Rhett turned back to the eggs he was tending. Lincoln slid out from under the blanket and stood, his cheeks warming as he covered his naked body with the pile of folded clothes and darted into the water closet.

He dressed quickly, listening to Rhett hum and whistle. He freshened up, splashing warm water across his face and using his damp fingers to straighten out his disheveled hair. A small patch of skin under his ear caught his attention, and another on the crest of his right pec, each one tinted with the slightest hue of purple and tiny flecks of red drawn to the surface by an eager mouth.

Lincoln felt the pounding of his heart under his fingertips, through the bruised skin of his neck.

“Link?” Rhett spoke softly through the door.

Lincoln jumped, startled from his distracting thoughts. “Yeah?” he answered, smoothing his hands over the thighs of his trousers.

“‘S’ready when you are.”

Lincoln fastened the last few buttons of his shirt, slid on his glasses, and opened the door.

Rhett was standing behind a chair, holding it away from the table where two plates sat steaming in the haze of morning sun.

“It’s not much,” Rhett said, looking over the meal, “but it’s food.”

Lincoln shook his head, smiling. “It looks delicious.”

Rhett smiled back. “Here. Sit.” He tapped the back of the chair with his hand.

Lincoln settled in his chair and Rhett pushed it in, just a touch, before slipping into his own.

“How’s the shoulder feeling?” Rhett asked, picking up his fork and using it to cut into his eggs.

“Can barely feel it,” Lincoln replied. He would have forgotten about the wound all together if his shirt hadn’t caught on its edges as he dressed.

“Good,” Rhett nodded before biting into a slice of dry toast.

Lincoln looked down at his plate, and grinned. His eggs weren’t the prettiest he’d ever seen, but they were decidedly sunny side up. “You don’t give yourself enough credit,” he said, gesturing to the eggs and looking up at Rhett over his glasses.

“Now, now,” Rhett chuckled. “You’ll have my ego swelling up over a couple of mangled eggs here in a minute.”

Lincoln smiled around his fork before they settled into a comfortable silence, sipping tea, and exchanging short, shy glances across the table. Lincoln couldn’t keep a straight face with Rhett’s eyes on him, feeling those flutters in his stomach, and the thrumming of his quickening heart.

“So,” Rhett finally said, shoving back a bit from the table and wiping the crumbs from his beard with a handkerchief. “How long before you have to…”

“Go back?”

“Mmm.” Rhett gave a small nod.

Lincoln rubbed at his shoulder and slumped back in his chair. “I don’t know…” He’d never asked; he’d just got on the bike and put as much distance between himself and the base as he could bear.

“Hmm.” Rhett tipped his head and thumbed his beard. “Well… You’re welcome here for however long ya can stand me.”

Lincoln’s lip turned up in a grin. “I think I’d wear out my welcome long before that.”

“Is that so?” Rhett’s brow piqued. “Because…” he stood and crossed behind Lincoln’s chair, bending down to bring his lips to Lincoln’s ear. “I doubt that,” he whispered before pressing his lips to Lincoln’s cheek.

Lincoln tensed and Rhett pulled back.

“Sorry… Is that…? I just—”

“No,” Lincoln’s hand covered Rhett’s on his shoulder, and he turned to face him. “It’s…” His eyes wandered across Rhett’s face for the brief moment and settled on his lips just before they met his own.

Rhett folded into him, bending forward, his weight resting on Lincoln’s shoulder as his hand glided up his neck, cupping his dark hair and deepening their connection.

Lincoln parted his lips and let Rhett in, let himself feel every perfect second until he was breathless and gasping.

Rhett pulled back, fingers still entwined in Lincoln’s hair. “Sick of me yet?”

“Disgusted,” Lincoln smirked.

Rhett chuckled, reaching over Lincoln to clear his plate from the table. “Whadda ya say we forget about when you may have to go,” he stacked his own plate onto Lincoln’s and gathered the empty mugs and flatware, “and just… enjoy the time we have?” He paused, dishes precariously in hand.

After a few silent moments, Lincoln replied. “You wanna show me a good time?” he asked, brows quirked. “I think I like the sounds of that.”

  


The day passed by in what seemed like an instant; a series of short moments that strung together until the sun fell from the sky. Smiles that gleamed in the flickering light that filtered through the leaves of trees and parted curtains.

Rhett had brought Lincoln along on a small chore he’d promised to help Teddy with days before, and Lincoln had sat perched on a fence rail — doodling in the margins of his journal, having been sidelined by his injury — watching as Rhett and Teddy attempted to wrangle a few ornery sheep into a pen. Dust flew along with trills of laughter as one slipped free of their grasp, and they tumbled to the ground. It was impossible to keep the sting of tears at bay as he watched the two of them tousling in the grass and jab at each others’ ribs. They slipped down his cheeks, as unstoppable as the ebb and flow of the tide, but all the while Lincoln wore a smile, wide and true.

They’d had dinner at the pub before its patrons flooded in for the evening. The meal had been prepared in the small kitchen by Valerie, though Teddy had claimed responsibility for the currant tarts, and by the look of his floured trousers, he’d laboured long and hard.

And as welcomed as he felt in their company, Lincoln’s fingers trembled with nerves, his fork clattering on his plate several times as they ate. It didn’t matter how many bright smiles and gentle words were said, or that Rhett had assured him they were among friends, among _understanding_ friends, he felt exposed and on display, only relaxing his shoulders and clenched jaw when sounds of the gathering crowd below were quieted by the closed door of Rhett’s flat.

With jackets shrugged free and a few short moments of nervous silence, Rhett filled the room with the warmth of the oil lamp’s light and his own smile. He was entirely radiant and utterly captivating in his quiet charm, perfect as the shadows danced across his body, and even though only a few feet separated them, the distance was too much for Lincoln to bear.

Embraced in Rhett’s arms, held to his chest, and listening to the steady beating of his heart, it was as at home as he’d ever felt. And as Rhett’s gentle hands brushed aside Lincoln’s hair — soft lips pressing to his forehead — Lincoln felt like a band constricting his chest relaxed, that he could breathe a little more deeply.

Though the fevered passion of the night before had been euphoric and unforgettable, there was something more to the way their bodies met in the lamplight tonight. A reverence. An unbounded affection as lips left cooling wet marks in their wake, as hands tenderly tested their fit in the curves of each other’s bodies. There was no rush, the urgency replaced instead by veneration. Fingers gently passing through hair, and caressing skin through clothes. They laid smiling at each other atop the blankets, exhausted by the heat of the day’s sun and content in gentle affection until sleep captured them both.

_**September 12, 1940: Tadcaster, Yorkshire, UK.** _

Lincoln woke early, almost before the sun, wrapped in Rhett’s long limbs. They were both still clothed and curled together. Rhett’s breath was warm in the nape of Lincoln’s neck, and his arm was draped around Lincoln’s waist.

Lincoln rolled over slowly, so as to not wake him. He cradled his own head on a bent arm, letting Rhett’s hand settle in the dip of his waist, and from behind a few stray blond curls that fell across Rhett’s forehead, he watched his lashes flutter.

Lincoln lifted his hand from the bedding between them and slid aside the errant hair that obstructed his view, admiring Rhett’s serene expression as he slept.

Rhett’s chest rose and fell with each breath, but almost imperceptibly so. His sleep was a deep and restful one, and Lincoln realized that his own had been as peaceful as he could remember.

He retained only faint hints of his dreams from the night before, and he was comforted by the impressions that remained. The faces had worn smiles, and their skies were bright and clear. Lincoln’s hand fell to Rhett’s shoulder and then glided over the curve of his bicep through his shirt.

Rhett stirred under Lincoln’s touch, a smile turning up the corners of his mouth before his eyes languidly opened.

“Sorry,” Lincoln whispered, tracing his fingers through the hair on the back of Rhett’s head. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Rhett sighed, his fingers pressing into Lincoln’s waist as leaned closer and placed his lips on Lincoln’s forehead. “I’m glad you did,” he breathed.

Lincoln smiled and pressed himself to Rhett, and laid his cheek over Rhett’s chest.

They laid together, quietly breathing each other in until the sun began to brighten the walls of the flat, spreading its warmth up Lincoln’s arm that curled around Rhett’s back.

Rhett’s chest expanded as he stretched and yawned before he spoke. “What would you like to do today, Mr. Neal?”

Lincoln grinned, pulling back enough to see Rhett smiling. “No work today?”

Rhett shook his head. “Not until the show tonight.”

“No sheep to wrangle or anything?” Lincoln teased.

Rhett chuckled. “Not a one.”

“Well in that case,” Lincoln said, shifting to his knees and pushing Rhett onto his back. “I guess I don’t really care what we do.” He threw a knee over Rhett’s waist and settled with one on either side, straddling Rhett’s hips, hands splayed across his chest.

Rhett’s slid a hand up Lincoln’s thigh as the other curled behind his own head. “That so?”

“Nope,” Lincoln said, tracing the curve of Rhett’s pec with his finger. “Not as long as we’re together.”

Rhett sat up and pulled Lincoln close, hands sliding his hands down Lincoln’s back and spreading his fingers out over the curve of his backside. “Together it is,” he whispered, pulling his lower lip between his teeth.

Lincoln kissed him. It was soft and tender, Rhett’s hands spread wide across his back, his own hands cradling Rhett’s neck, fingers knotting into soft, blond curls.

Rhett smiled against Lincoln’s lips and leaned back, resting on his elbows and looking up at Lincoln. “I think I’d like to take you to the Wharfe today.”

Lincoln’s head tipped to the side, brows crinkling.

“The river,” Rhett clarified. “Do you swim?”

Lincoln smiled. “Like a fish.”

~~~~~ * ~~~~~

The water glinted in the sun, warm colours of the burgeoning fall reflecting from it. Rhett had brought him to a secluded clearing on the river’s edge. They’d walked through the woods for a least a mile after leaving town and now Lincoln understood why. It was beautiful and serene, not a soul in sight or earshot.

“This is one of my favorite places on Earth… not that I’ve done much in the way of exploring.”

“It’s beautiful,” Lincoln said, turning to look at Rhett as he stared out over the water, shielding his eyes with a hand to his forehead. “Beautiful.”

“Well I’m starving,” Rhett said, flinging the flannel blanket he had slung over his shoulder out across the grass and setting the small sack of packed lunch on it. “Care to join me?” He asked, holding out his hand as he curled his legs and sat down cross-legged.

Lincoln took his hand and sat down next to him. As Rhett unfolded the bundle that contained their lunch, Lincoln stared over the water at the trees, their leaves clinging to the last of summer’s green.

“I gotta hand it to Teddy,” Rhett said as he unwrapped the single remaining tart from the night before. “These were delicious and I don’t even really like currants.”

Lincoln laughed. “Good to know an old friend can still surprise you.”

Rhett sighed. “Safe to say that’s Val’s influence on ‘im.” He looked up from the bread he was slicing to meet Lincoln’s gaze. “Funny what love can do to a man.” 

The lump formed instantly, blocking the air from reaching his lungs. Lincoln coughed to clear it, reaching for the canteen of water and swallowing nearly half of it back in one go.

“You alright there?” Rhett asked, picking up the cucumber and slicing off the shriveled end.

Lincoln nodded, wiping away the water that rolled down his chin with the sleeve of his shirt.

A smile crept across Rhett’s face and his cheeks rounded around it. He cut the cucumber into thin slices over the already prepared bread and then passed a piece to Lincoln.

There was a long moment of silence — the two of them taking small bites of their meal and looking out over the water — and then Rhett reached over and pulled aside the loose collar of Lincoln’s button down.

Lincoln’s heart skipped in his chest as Rhett’s fingertips grazed his skin.

“Sorry,” Rhett apologized, letting the shirt fall slack. “Just wanted to see it was healing proper.”

Lincoln shook his head and swallowed the last of his open-faced sandwich, dusting the crumbs off his trousers. “You can see if you like,” he said, reaching for the closed buttons of his shirt, shrugging it off his shoulder and revealing the much smaller bandage.

“May I?” Rhett asked, wiping his hand on his shirt.

“Sure.”

Rhett slid closer, reaching out and pressing the skin around the bandage. “Any tenderness here?” He probed again.

“Uh… No.” Lincoln said, looking down at Rhett’s fingers pressing into his skin.

“That’s good. The colour’s better too.” Rhett laid his palm over the bandage for a moment. “Still bleeding?” he asked, looking Lincoln in the eye, brows arched in concern.

Lincoln had to clear his throat before he answered. “No.”

“Perfect.” Rhett smiled and pulled Lincoln’s shirt back over his shoulder.

“I’m sure it’d still be if not for you.” Lincoln fastened only a few buttons, leaving his shirt to hang open over his chest.

Rhett’s cheeks rounded and flushed.

“Where’d you learn all that anyhow?” Lincoln asked, taking another gulp of water from the canteen. “First aid training?”

“Uh… rather more practical I’m afraid,” Rhett pushed up the rolled cuffs of his shirt.

“Oh?”

“Mmm.” Rhett turned away. “My mum…”

“Rhett… I’m so sorry… ” Lincoln slid closer, reaching out and laying his hand over Rhett’s forearm.

“It’s fine,” he said, raking his hand through his beard. “Doctors just figured it’d be easier to show me a few things rather than be makin’ house calls at all hours.” He closed his eyes, sighing and covering Lincoln’s hand with his own.

In the silence that followed, soft clouds drifted over the sun, the shadows of which fell on the river and the bank where the two sat. Lincoln’s skin cooled in the shade for a few moments before the shadows faded away, and the sun peeked out once again.

“Come on,” Rhett said, jumping to his feet and kicking off his shoes.

“Come on, what?” Lincoln smiled up at him, shielding his eyes from the glow of the sun that haloed around Rhett’s hair.

Rhett pulled his shirt off and was already walking backward toward the river bank when he flipped free his belt buckle. “You think I brought you to the river just to look at it!” He slid his pants down his legs, leaving them in a puddle on the ground.

The flip of his stomach, along with the heat rising in his cheeks, had Lincoln reeling and flustered. He stared at Rhett, clad in only his baggy underpants. He pushed his glasses up his nose and tried to bring words to his lips.

“But…. We just ate!” Lincoln called.

“Hah!” Rhett smiled, turning and walking into the water to his knees before spinning back around “That’s a silly myth!” he called with a hand cupped to his mouth. 

Lincoln shook his head and stood, wiping his hands on the backside of his pants.

“I won’t let you drown…” Rhett backed further into the water. “I promise.”

Lincoln acquiesced, toeing out of his shoes and unbuttoning the rest of his shirt. He stepped his socks off and headed for the water, fingers working open the clasp of his belt when he stopped dead in his tracks. He looked down at the trousers he wore, at Teddy’s trousers, and knew what he wasn’t wearing under them.

“What’s the matter?” Rhett said, splashing water at him.

Lincoln’s Adam’s apple climbed his neck, and his mouth had gone dry in an instant. “It’s just… I’m not wearing…”

“Oh!” Rhett dropped further into the water for a moment, squirming a bit before tossing his soaked underwear onto the bank. “That better?”

Lincoln looked down at the discarded garment and his fingers began to tremble. Roaming hands touching in the darkness, that was one thing, but being on full display, for Rhett to see… for _anyone_ to see, he wasn’t sure he was ready for it.

“There’s no one here but us,” Rhett reassured. “Just us and the trees.” 

Lincoln smiled, but only managed the first button of his pants before he paused again.

Rhett sighed and turned away, his back to Lincoln.

Lincoln stripped away the last of his clothes, setting his glasses atop the pile, and stepped into the cool water. He walked until he stood at Rhett’s side, the water licking at his skin just above his navel. Rhett’s body was shining in the sunlight, water beading in the longer strands of hair that hung on the back of his neck and rolling down his back. The water’s surface rode his body so low that it hid very little from Lincoln’s view.

“I’ve never brought anyone else here,” Rhett said, eyes closed and chin pointed to the sky.

Lincoln didn’t speak, and instead mirrored Rhett, staring up at the drifting sweep of clouds before letting his eyes fall shut. After a short moment of comfortable silence, the river’s cool waters draining the heat from his skin, Lincoln felt Rhett’s fingers lace together with his own beneath the surface.

“Thank you,” Lincoln said softly. “For everything.”

Rhett squeezed Lincoln’s hand and then released it.

When Lincoln opened his eyes, Rhett was standing in front of him — eyes warm, the skin around them crinkled by the smile he wore. As Lincoln parted his lips to speak, Rhett leaned down and kissed him, his hand slipping behind Lincoln’s head while the other wrapped around his back. He pulled Lincoln to his chest as he walked them backward into slightly deeper water.

Lincoln let Rhett into his mouth, kissing him back with the same tenacity. He wrapped his arms around Rhett’s shoulders, folding his hands together behind Rhett’s neck.

Rhett shifted his grip, the water now lapping at his waist. His fingers pressed into the underside of Lincoln’s thigh, hoisting it up his body until it nestled into the curve of his hip, then the other. Rhett held him there, his hands now cradling Lincoln’s round backside.

Breathless and fueled by the need to see the desire he was sure he’d find in Rhett’s eyes, Lincoln pulled his lips free of Rhett’s nipping teeth and looked down at him.

Rhett’s chest heaved, and he squeezed the flesh in his hands.

Lincoln groaned as Rhett buried his face in the crook of his neck, freshening the marks that were only just beginning to fade.

“God… you’re beautiful,” Rhett breathed into his skin.

Lincoln’s skin was so hot it was evaporating every drop of water that touched it, along with the wet marks left behind by Rhett’s mouth. He wondered how the river itself kept from boiling over the banks. He brought his lips to Rhett’s ear and spoke in panted breath. “Your hands… your mouth… feels so good.”

Rhett kissed up the tendon running the length of Lincoln’s neck and back into his mouth.

Wanting more — wanting to press ever closer, to feel more of Rhett’s skin on his own — Lincoln shifted his weight up Rhett’s torso, hooking his feet together behind Rhett’s back. But as he settled against him, he felt Rhett’s footing falter, destabilized by the change in their collective center of gravity.

“Woah ho ho!” Rhett called out as he toppled backward, Lincoln still clung to his chest as they splashed into the water.

Lincoln surged up out of the water first, wiping it from his eyes, and tossing back his hair, but Rhett remained hidden in the dark water.

“Rhett?” he said, treading water as he spun in place. The water was flat, no bubbles or ripples that weren’t there before. Just as Lincoln’s curiosity was preparing to turn the corner to panic, he felt a hand wrap around his ankle and tug him under. He swatted in the darkness, smiling as he felt another hand pull him close.

The two of them rose up out of the water together, hair dripping in their eyes and smiles on their faces before they erupted into laughter.

~~~~~ * ~~~~~

By the time their feet struck the first cobbles of Tadcaster’s streets, evidence of their trip to the river had evaporated from their skin, their hair now dry and skin only kissed with the slightest hint pink from the sun.

They had held hands walking through the forest, confident that the canopy and undergrowth would protect them from prying eyes, but the same could not be said of these small-town lanes and alleys.

They headed back to Rhett’s flat first, skirting around the backstreet. Rhett threw the lunch bundle onto the table and unfolded his damp underwear, slinging them over the line out the window and pulling off his shirt to change.

“Teddy’ll likely give me a right hard time for missing rehearsal,” Rhett said, slipping into a fresh shirt and clipping on suspenders.

Lincoln sat on the end of the bed watching as Rhett darted into the water closet with his hat in hand, popping back out looking perfectly disheveled, just as he had the first time they’d met.

“You ready?” he asked, tucking in the last tail of his shirt.

Lincoln didn’t respond right away, instead he simply grinned and hummed his reply. “Mmhmm.”

“What?” Rhett looked himself up and down.

“Nothing... “ Lincoln got to his feet and stepped between Rhett’s feet adjusting the straps of his suspenders. “You just look good is all.”

“Oh no. Don’t you start that now,” Rhett laughed. “I’m already late!”

“Alright… alright…” Lincoln’s forehead met Rhett’s chest as he laughed.

“You’ll be the end of me, you will.” Rhett kissed Lincoln’s temple and then snatched his jacket from the bedpost. “We best be gettin’ down there,” he said, holding open the door and gesturing to it with the arm his jacket was draped over.

“So chivalrous.”

Rhett shook his head. “March!”

  


As they made their way down the steps to the pub and around to the front door, he did not hear what he expected. No instruments tuning, no laughter and ruckus that Rhett had warned were a regular part of their rehearsals. No. Instead the sound of a single droning voice sounded through the door. Lincoln looked up at Rhett, brows knit.

Rhett shrugged and shook his head before he pushed open the door, the bell over it ringing out loudly in the near silence of the room.

“Shh!” Gerald hushed from behind the bar, turning the knob on the radio at his side, static crackling the edges of the speaker’s voice.

**_‘...the next week or so as a very important period in our history. It ranks with the days when the Spanish Armada was approaching the Channel, and Drake was finishing his game of bowls; or when Nelson stood between us and Napoleon’s Grand Army at Boulogne. We have read all about this in the history books; but what is happening now is on a far greater scale and of far more consequence to the life and future of the world and its civilisation than these brave old days of the past.’_ **

Churchill’s words sounded in the rafters, the small crowd that was huddled around the bar were silenced by them and the weight they carried with them.

**_‘Every man and woman will therefore prepare himself to do his duty, whatever it may be, with special pride and care. Our fleets and flotillas are very powerful and numerous; our Air Force is at the highest strength it has ever reached, and it is conscious of its proved superiority, not indeed in numbers, but in men and machines.’_ **

Lincoln’s hand closed around Rhett’s, his entire body tensing at the Prime Minister’s statement. His jaw tightened as the images he’d come here to hide from ripped down the curtain and revealed themselves. The gunfire, the heat, the fire and blood. All of it searing his insides, ripping and tearing at repairs only just made. He squeezed Rhett’s hand so tight he was certain it must hurt, but Rhett didn’t flinch. He simply ran his thumb over Lincoln’s skin, slow and steady.

**_‘It is a message of good cheer to our fighting Forces on the seas, in the air, and in our waiting Armies in all their posts and stations, that we sent them from this capital city. They know that they have behind them a people who will not flinch or weary of the struggle — hard and protracted though it will be; but that we shall rather draw from the heart of suffering itself the means of inspiration and survival, and of a victory won not only for ourselves but for all; a victory won not only for our own time, but for the long and better days that are to come.’_ **

The transmission ended with the radio announcer signing off and the airwaves sputtering into static.

Gerald turned off the radio and the room remained silent for a long moment before anyone spoke, and in that silence, Lincoln released Rhett’s hand.

“I think if we’re to take the man’s words to heart,” Teddy spoke softly from the stool next to Rhett. “We oughtta fill this room with with the music and laughter that shows we’re not afraid.”

“Here, here!” Gerald said, slapping Teddy’s shoulder.

The others jumped down from their stools and began to gather around the stage, the atmosphere relaxing as quiet conversations began to spring up.

Lincoln stared at the floor, Churchill’s words playing over in his head. _‘Every man and woman will therefore prepare himself to do his duty.’_

“Link?” Rhett asked, tugging his sleeve. “You gonna be okay?”

Looking up from his shoes to Rhett, Lincoln was sure he wouldn’t be able to convince Rhett entirely, but he tried. “Uhh… Yeah, I just… I think I need some air… if that’s okay.”

Rhett’s hand fell from Lincoln’s arm and he wiped his palms on the thighs of his pants. “Yeah… yeah sure,” he replied. “You want me to come with you?”

“No.” Lincoln shot back too quickly. “I mean… you should be here,” he smiled. “I already made you late for rehearsal. I don’t think Teddy’d forgive me if you missed the first number.” Lincoln cupped Rhett’s shoulder.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Rhett asked, brows arched, eyes seeking contact.

Lincoln nodded, pushing Rhett toward the others. “Go.”

Rhett smiled, adjusted his hat, and jogged to Teddy’s side.

Lincoln’s shoulders sank and his heart with it. He turned and walked slowly to the door, bursting into a run as soon as it was closed behind him. He ran to the gate of the stables up the street and hopped over it, sprinting up the hill to the small stand of trees that separated the wheat fields on either side.

He collapsed against the rough bark of an oak, sliding down it until the earth began to dampen the seat of his pants. His lungs burned and his body ached with the force of his sudden exertion, like it had grown complacent and weak in the few days he’d given it to heal and rest.

He’d been a fool. Hiding from the world, running scared from a war that wasn’t going anywhere, one that was only going to worsen. And even though this place had brought him comfort — and in Rhett’s arms, his worn and weary body didn’t feel quite so riddled with holes, nor his addled mind quite so lost and burdened — he’d come to this country for a reason.

In the distance, Lincoln picked up on a familiar sound faintly rumbling through the air. In the sky over the fields afar, several planes flew in formation, dotting the evening’s pink sky with flecks of black.

Lincoln got to his feet, watching his brother’s in arms until their outlines faded away beyond the horizon. He looked back over his shoulder, down the hill to the streets below, sighing heavily and trying to ignore the ache in his heart. He turned to face the wide-open sky once more. “I have to go back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all. I'm not even going to say it... because how many more apologies can you guys even take? I'm just going to say I hope you enjoy it, and shut then I'll just shut up.
> 
> RTR <3
> 
> P.S. You can listen to Winston Churchill's September 11th, 1940 address, "Every Man to His post", [HERE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F8ppJOWh9gU). I'm sorry in advance.
> 
>  **Art for This Chapter:**  
>  By: Magicbubblepipe  
> [Lincoln in Rhett's lap](http://magicbubblepipe.tumblr.com/post/164338792400/chapter-18-remembertherandler)  
> [Together in the river](http://magicbubblepipe.tumblr.com/post/164340059660/anotha-one-this-one-is-a-little-more-risque-so)


	19. Don't Let the Sun Rise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Recommended Listening:**   
>  [The Other Side - Ruelle](https://youtu.be/PVJp307TNTY)   
>  [The Song is Ended (But The Melody Lingers On) - Nick Lucas](https://youtu.be/iTJbTJ5wXcs)   
>  [These Arms of Mine - Alex Dezen (Otis Redding Cover)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xgudu2SZYzE)   
>  [Don't Let the Sunrise- Nick Wilson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DrqrQXAx33c&feature=youtu.be)   
>  [You - Keaton Henson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZxQLNxFA1Mg)

_**September 12, 1940: Tadcaster, Yorkshire, UK.** _

The last of the day’s light was clinging desperately to the horizon — the growing bank of clouds overhead beginning to steal away the first flecks of starlight — before Lincoln headed back down the lea. The streets were quiet, allowing the sound of his footsteps to echo up the brick walls of buildings that lined the lanes.

The windows of the Hart and Thistle were glowing bright, the laughter and cheers of the boisterous crowd barely audible over the band. As Lincoln got closer, the mass of moving bodies began to come into focus, the crowd splitting down the middle long enough for him to catch a clear glimpse of the stage. Of Rhett.

The burning in his chest was nearly unbearable, like he’d swallowed glowing embers that were threatening to ignite and engulf him from the inside out. For so long he’d been certain where he’d find meaning in his life, that among the clouds he was his truest self, resolute and pure. But standing here, looking through this smudged pane of glass, he knew he’d been incontrovertibly wrong.

In the sky he could hide from the world, though it only offered his soul a short reprieve. But Rhett? Rhett was the deliverance Lincoln had been searching for, but never dreamed of finding. Lincoln was anchored in his arms. Rhett was his center. Rhett made him feel whole.

A tear slipped free and, instead of wiping it away, Lincoln let it gather and roll down his cheek until it dropped from his chin, his eyes following its path to the cobbled ground. How could he say goodbye? And if he managed, would he ever again get to say hello?

Lincoln spun away from the window and began pacing the sidewalk, fingers drumming at his thighs. After a few passes, he found himself standing not in front of the window, but the alley’s gate. Behind it the chrome of Tim’s motorcycle reflected back the glow of a street lamp.

Lincoln shoved open the gate and grabbed the helmet from the seat. He fussed with the chin strap, fingers trembling as he tried to free the clasp. “Shi—” He threw the helmet to the ground and knotted his hands in his hair. “Dammit.” He kicked the back tire and spun around, resting against the leather seat. He stared up at the faint haze of the moon, the clouds almost entirely obstructing it from view.

“Don’t be a coward,” Lincoln said, calming his breath and smoothing back his hair. “You have to tell him.”

As he stepped into the pub, Rhett and the others were just climbing down from the stage. Lincoln had missed the first half of their set already. The floor was crowded with bodies and the heat they generated made the smoky air hang even more heavily.

Rhett’s face lit up when he spotted Lincoln near the corner of the bar. He sidled around people, hopping to Lincoln’s side and leaning his long body across the bartop. He lifted his hat and brushed the errant hairs from his forehead.

Valerie didn’t wait for an order, simply placing two bottles on the bartop, flashing them both an easy smile before she grabbed a tray full of pints and headed off to deliver them.

“Everythin’ all right?” Rhett asked, leaning down to be heard over the lively conversations around them, hand wrapping around a sweating bottle of ale.

Lincoln forced a weak smile and nodded.

“You’re sure?” Rhett asked, bottle resting against his lower lip, brows raised. He took a small sip, eyes never leaving Lincoln’s. He set his drink down on the bar and leaned closer again. “I’ve got a few minutes… If you want to go outside to tal—”

“No,” Lincoln interjected. His voice quivered just enough that he worried it might give him away. He needed to say goodbye but he just wasn’t ready. Not yet.

“No, it’s fine,” he reassured him. “You should be here… and I want to watch you play.” Lincoln smiled as he raised his hand to Rhett’s elbow, letting it linger only a moment before it fell back to his side.

Rhett pulled in a tentative mouthful of ale, holding it for a moment before he swallowed and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “So long as you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

A whistle sounded from the stage, and it quieted the crowd. “This bass ain’ likely to play itself!” Teddy called, slinging his guitar over his shoulder.

Rhett rolled his eyes. “An’ he calls that an intermission.” He took another long swig before passing his bottle to Lincoln, leaning closer to speak quietly in his ear. “I’ll make it up to you later.”

Lincoln’s cheeks warmed as a smile pulled at the sullen corners of his lips. “Go,” he said, gently pushing Rhett away.

Rhett took a few sauntering steps backward, flashed a wink, and turned to walk back up on stage, yelling at Teddy as he went. “I didn’ even get an ale in, ya shite!”

Lincoln watched the two banter for a few moments, their voices not reaching his ears, before Rhett moved to stand behind his bass and pulled a few rumbling notes from the strings. He stretched his fingers and smiled out at the crowd, his eyes quickly seeking out Lincoln’s own.

Perched on a stool at the bar, Lincoln drank only the neck of his ale, leaving the bottle to sweat a ring onto the bar top. He politely refused several offers to dance, made more than a few nervous trips to the restroom, but most of the evening passed with his attention focused on Rhett and the music.

Rhett’s long arms wrapped confidently around his instrument, his fingers effortlessly pulling notes as he smiled at his friends on stage, singing along when the chorus built. Lincoln easily picked Rhett’s voice out from the others; the warmth of it was calming and distinct. Here, in this pub in Yorkshire, Lincoln had been allowed to forget, even if only fleetingly. And here, in a world set apart — hidden away from the war raging across the narrow channel by the broad beams, strong drink, and joyous music — Lincoln was going to live, to put tomorrow’s goodbye aside, and give himself over to this night.

As Rhett and the others threw themselves into their last song of the night, Lincoln got up from his stool. He took a drink from the now-warm bottle in his hand before pushing his way through the bodies between him and the stage to take a place in the front row.

His thin cotton shirt clung to Rhett’s chest, and his hair was long past messy. His foot tapped along in rhythm as he swayed with his instrument, eyes closed and lower lip drawn in between his teeth. His demeanor was confident and sure, and when he spotted Lincoln — now only feet away — his cheeks rounded over damn near the most beautiful smile Lincoln had ever seen.

The flush of heat to Lincoln’s cheeks was instantaneous, as was the pounding of his heart. Tingling waves of weightlessness rippled through his limbs and vibrated out the end of every single tiny hair that covered his body. It was electrifying. There was nothing in this life that Lincoln was more certain of in this moment than his affection for a man who only weeks ago, was a stranger. This was love. This was most assuredly, undoubtedly, and unequivocally, love.

When the song came to a close, and before the crowd had a chance to disperse, or the last ringing notes could clear the rafters, Rhett was whispering in Teddy’s ear.

Teddy grabbed his shoulder, whispering back before cupping Rhett’s arm and giving it a small shake. Lincoln watched as Rhett’s cheeks flushed and rounded. He gave Teddy’s back a solid pat before hopping down from the stage next to where Lincoln had moved to lean against a post.

The heat radiating from Rhett’s flushed skin warmed Lincoln’s own even further, and he had to fight back the desperate urge to reach out for him, to pull him in, to hold onto him, to hold onto it all. But watchful eyes, and the nerves forming a pit the size of a fist in his stomach, kept his thumbs hooked in his pockets.

Rhett smiled, his hand raking back damp curls before he turned back to the others on stage, but Teddy didn’t give him a chance to reconsider.

“I told ya… we’ve got it!” Teddy called, nodding with raised brows.

Rhett shook his head, rubbing his hands together as he turned back to Lincoln. He leaned down and spoke. “Another drink?”

The warmth of Rhett’s breath on his neck made Lincoln’s eyelashes flutter, and when Rhett pulled back, Lincoln slowly shook his head. With trembling hands, he tugged on the folded fabric cuffs of Rhett’s shirt near the elbow, encouraging him to drop his ear.

If the sun was coming to throw light on shadows where they’d been hiding, Lincoln would tuck himself into the one Rhett cast — press himself against the walls just to hold onto it a little longer. He paused with his lips to Rhett’s ear for a moment before he spoke.

“Follow me,” he said, slow and warm in Rhett’s ear. He pushed away from the pillar where he’d been standing and ducked into the same hall Rhett had led him down before. His heart was racing faster and faster with each footfall as he made his way through the small door into the back lot. He never turned back to see that Rhett was following, fearing he might lose his nerve.

The sky was blacked out, the stars hidden in the grey of low-lying cloud. Lincoln watched them for a moment, slowly drifting over the faint glow of moonlight. The crickets calling from the high grass was a soothing constant as Lincoln rested his back against the rough brick. He waited for what seemed like an eternity for Rhett’s shadow to fall into the long rectangle of light on the ground, and when it did, Lincoln surged for the door.

Rhett gasped as Lincoln grabbed hold of his shirt lapels, no chance to catch his breath before Lincoln’s mouth covered his over.

Every gripping fingertip and gnashing tooth fought for purchase. Lincoln pressed himself into Rhett’s long body, spinning his back to the wall and slamming Rhett against it. He stood on up on the balls of his feet, and tugged Rhett closer by the collar of his shirt to kiss him deeply and completely.

Rhett groaned as one of Lincoln’s hands slid down his body, across his hip, and settled on his backside; the sound of it passed from Rhett’s mouth to Lincoln’s. He cupped Lincoln’s cheek and wrapped his other hand around Lincoln’s waist.

The world could have blinked out of existence, because wrapped up in Rhett — feeling his lips fill in the gap of his own, feeling his hands pulling at skin through cloth — there was nothing else.

Rhett breathed out the beginnings of a word against Lincoln’s lips, but it was swallowed up, their mouths sealing it in.

Lincoln’s hands grew more insistent, tugging the last bit of Rhett’s shirt that remained tucked in his trousers. He pulled back from Rhett’s lips only to mouth at his neck, sucking his way to the crook of Rhett’s shoulder and nipping at the tendon that stretched out as Rhett’s head fell back against the wall.

“Link…” Rhett groaned, his hands falling from Lincoln’s waist, fingers clinging to his belt loops, but only just.

Just as Lincoln’s fingertips began to dip into the small gap of Rhett’s trousers at the base of his spine, loud laughter rang through the air, traveling down the alley from the front of the pub, other voices soon joining the first.

Rhett jolted under Lincoln’s touch, his head straightening, hands gripping at Lincoln’s hips. “Shh,” he gently hushed.

Lincoln pulled back, the two of silent for a moment, listening for an approach that never came.

Rhett took his hand. “Come on,” he whispered, tugging Lincoln down the alley toward the steps to his flat.

Lincoln followed him willingly, the taste of Rhett’s skin still heavy on his tongue. His gaze settled quickly on Rhett’s backside as he climbed the stairs.

Rhett turned to him when he reached the door. “A bit more private, I should think,” he said, throwing the deadbolt and opening the door.

Rhett’s flat was dark, the dim streetlamp and blackened sky doing little to brighten his path. He flicked his lighter to life and stepped inside. He cursed under his breath as he passed by the table, kicking a chair into the middle of the small room.

Lincoln chuckled, stepping into the doorway and leaning against its jamb. With arms crossed over his chest, he watched as Rhett lit the oil lamp on the bookcase. The warm light spread out across the floor and up the walls, but left the majority of the room dimly lit and hidden in shadow. Lincoln closed the door as Rhett fussed with the glass shade of the lamp.

Rhett turned to Lincoln, the light at his back. “I think this thing’s put in a good day’s work,” Rhett said, his fingers working open the buttons of his shirt. As he headed for the water closet, he slipped it from his shoulders, letting it hang by his elbows.

Rhett made it little more than a step before Lincoln’s hands were on him again, pulling Rhett’s half-clothed body against his own, mouth seeking out its mate.

Rhett turned, averting the kiss, grinning against Lincoln’s cheek. “Woah… woah,” Rhett whispered in his ear, warming his hands up Lincoln’s arms. “I’m not goin’ anywhere…”

Lincoln’s hands trembled against the small of Rhett’s back, and his lungs constricted in his chest at the reminder of loss that what was lurking in the shadows beyond the lamplight.

“I’m right here,” Rhett said, pressing a kiss to Lincoln’s forehead, before meeting his gaze. “I just… need a minute.” Rhett’s brows piqued as he looked toward the open door of the water closet.

Lincoln reluctantly released his hold. “Sorry,” he said, his shoulders falling along with his gaze.

Rhett smiled, smoothed his hand down Lincoln’s back, and stepped into the water closet.

After a brief moment, a strip of flickering light lined the bottom of the door. Lincoln settled on the edge of the poorly made bed, staring at the closed door. He slid off his glasses and placed them on the folded bundle of his clothes sitting on the chair. Before too long, the sound of soft music began to filter up through the gaps in the floorboards from the pub below.

After the first bar of muffled lyrics, Rhett pushed open the door, humming softly along with the music. His suspenders hung at his sides, his chest still bare as he wiped water from his face with a towel.

The song was one Lincoln didn’t quite recognize, but Rhett’s voice painted it with familiarity.

Rhett draped the hand towel over the back of a chair, pushing it out of the way to clear a small area of the floor, and then held out a hand to Lincoln. “Care to dance?” he asked, beginning to sway with the slow waltz.

Lincoln flushed, gaze dropping to Rhett’s chest as he chewed at his lip.

Rhett slouched in disappointment. “You’re not gonna turn me down like ya did all those poor lasses… ” he said, stepping closer and leaning to catch Lincoln’s eye. “Are ya?”

Lincoln smiled, shaking his head with a sigh. He reached out to take Rhett’s hand as his own struggled to find their place; the instinct to take Rhett in his arms as he had the women who’d managed to coax a dance from him in the past sent nervous ripples through his veins.

With a curled finger under Lincoln’s chin, Rhett smiled and laced their fingers together. He then guided Lincoln’s hand to his shoulder before he ghosted his own down Lincoln’s side until it settled in the dip of Lincoln’s waist. He looked down at Lincoln, his eyes soft and warm, his features glinting in the lamplight as he pulled Lincoln closer.

They moved together, slowly, Rhett’s hand warming over Lincoln’s back, Lincoln’s resting softly on Rhett’s shoulder. Lincoln had done everything in his power to avoid the ritual of dancing — claiming the propriety and form of it all was just too old fashioned for his taste — though, having been raised in the old south, it wasn’t something he’d been able to avoid entirely. Dance classes and balls, they were a part of his past he’d like very much to remain there. But swaying in Rhett’s arms, listening to the sound of his soothing voice softly crooning, he was sure he’d merely had the wrong partner all along.

_‘The song is ended, but the melody lingers on. You and the song are gone, but the melody lingers on’_

Lincoln’s throat burned with all of the words he longed to say but kept trapped inside. The thought that all of this would be merely an echo come morning, it was more than he could stand to imagine. To keep from dwelling on it, Lincoln spoke. “You know this song then?” Lincoln asked, resting his cheek on Rhett’s warm chest.

“Mmm,” Rhett hummed. “Gerald likes to play the classics,” he said, pressing his lips into Lincoln’s hair. “He’s probably about ready to lock up…” Rhett’s voice drifted off as the lyrics gave way to an instrumental break.

Their steps grew smaller as the song drew to a close, and when the faint snaps of the needle dragging through the record’s empty grooves replaced the sound of music, they had already come to a stop. They stood motionless in the middle of the room, holding one another for a long moment before their eyes met.

“Link…” Rhett’s lip trembled as he thumbed over the folded collar of Lincoln’s shirt. “Link, I… I lo—”

Lincoln placed a finger on Rhett’s lip and shook his head. “Don’t,” he breathed. There was little else in this world Lincoln would rather hear than Rhett utter those words, but he was afraid. Afraid it would all come crumbling to the ground. Afraid that he might not be able to shoulder the weight. Afraid that it could be the last time and that it would be easier to bear if there was never a first.

A crease formed between Rhett’s brows. “But—”

Lincoln laced his fingers together behind Rhett’s neck and pulled him into a punishing kiss, serving to both silence Rhett and the voices swirling in his own head.

Their mouths began to move as one — lips slotting together, tongues teasing at the gaps between. Rhett’s hands roamed over Lincoln’s back and grabbed at fistfulls of his shirt, pulling it free of his trousers, while Lincoln’s fingers worked open the button at the front of Rhett’s pants.

Lincoln groaned into the widening space between Rhett’s lips, slipping his tongue inside as he began to take small steps backwards toward the foot of the bed. He kicked out of his shoes before the backs of his knees met the bedframe.

Rhett pulled away, hands wrapping around the back of Lincoln’s neck, fingers tangling into dark hair. His eyes drifted lovingly between Lincoln’s before he closed his lips over Lincoln’s again. He cradled Lincoln beneath him as they fell onto the bed.

Fervent and shaking, Lincoln’s fingers went to work on the buttons of his own shirt. His heart pounded under his fingertips as Rhett hovered over him — holding himself up on the broad palms of his hands. When Lincoln wiggled free of his shirt, tossing it to the floor beside the bed, he wrapped his arms around Rhett’s shoulders, bringing their bare chests together as both of them heaved for breath.

Struggling for air, Lincoln broke free and kissed his way from the corner of Rhett’s mouth down to the dip where his neck met his freckled chest. Lincoln palmed Rhett through the fabric of his trousers as Rhett let his weight drop gently onto Lincoln’s chest.

Rhett breathed warmly into Lincoln’s hair, rolling his hips, driving himself into the hand pinned between their bodies.

Lincoln hooked his finger through a belt loop of Rhett’s pants. He hauled them down over one of Rhett’s hips, making enough room for the hand that had worked Rhett’s length hard to slip into his undergarment. He breathed out a soft moan as he wrapped his hand around Rhett, skin on skin.

“Oh, God…” Rhett moaned into the shell of Lincoln’s ear. He pressed his parted lips to Lincoln’s throat, mouthing across the tendons and down to the crest of his clavicle.

With fingers trailing up Rhett’s spine to knot into soft blond curls, Lincoln rutted against him and nudged his trousers further down, exposing Rhett’s backside. “Rhett… please…” he moaned into Rhett’s soft hair.

Rhett groaned, laying wet kisses into the coarse curls on Lincoln’s chest; he nibbled at the thin skin covering Lincoln’s protruding collarbone and then began to trail his wet lips down Lincoln’s chest, flicking his tongue over the firm nub of his left nipple as his hardened flesh slipped free of Lincoln’s grasp.

Lincoln whined, and reached out for Rhett, but found himself pinned to the mattress by a warm hand on his chest as Rhett’s tongue painted a wet line across his ribs and down his stomach. Lincoln breathed out Rhett’s name and quiet half-expletives into the crook of his elbow, his teeth gnawing at the inside of his lower lip until it began to swell and sting.

Rhett stood up on his knees, his trousers falling to the bed, leaving only the thin layer of his cotton underwear to shield his arousal. He kicked free of his hanging clothes and then reached for the clasp of Lincoln’s belt, flipping it open and sliding it free in one slow and fluid movement.

The room blurred out of focus as Rhett stripped Lincoln of the last of his clothes. The breeze that drifted in through the curtains danced across his warm skin and pimpled it with goosebumps. He rolled his head on the pillows, wetting his lips with a drag of his tongue, anticipating the touch he was sure would follow the wash of hot breath across his skin.

“My God…” Rhett’s words warmed the skin of Lincoln’s inner thigh. “You’re breathtaking…” His tongue wet the sharp line of Lincoln’s hip.

A brush of his fingertips through the longest curls of Rhett’s hair was all Lincoln managed before he collapsed in bliss, relishing the perfection of Rhett’s mouth wrapping his most intimate skin in wet heat.

Rhett’s fingers pressed into Lincoln’s hips and then crept up the sheets to entangle with Lincoln’s.

Raising his head from the pillow, Lincoln looked down his body, watching himself disappear between Rhett’s lips. He drew in a sharp breath, moaning softly as he squeezed Rhett’s hand. He tried to speak, but the words fell apart, escaping as breathy pleas to the rafters.

Rhett gripped Lincoln’s hip and pulled him closer allowing him to take Lincoln deeper. He freed his other hand from Lincoln’s weakening hold and traced the pads of his fingers over Lincoln’s wrist and forearm.

There was little more Lincoln could do than writhe under Rhett’s touch. But It was all so much more than the feel of his skin, of his hands and mouth. Rhett had chipped away at the wall Lincoln had built around himself; he’d found the cracks, broken in though the fault lines. He saw Lincoln for who he really was, and for the first time Lincoln felt like who he was, was enough.

“Rhett,” he whimpered, his toes curling and heart pounding, the soft heat bringing him right to the edge of release. “Rhett… I— I want you to—” he clutched the sheets when the cool air washed over his wet length as Rhett’s mouth slipped from his skin.

Rhett sat back on his thighs, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then cupped Lincoln’s bent and quivering knees. “Tell me…” he said, warm and low. “Tell me what you want.”

Lincoln groaned, lolling his head into the pillow. He gathered the tiny remnants of sense that remained in his rapidly clouding mind and pushed himself up from the mattress, holding his weight on his hands, his damp hair falling into his eyes. “I want— I need—” The heat rose in his cheeks. “I… I…”

“Shhh,” Rhett hushed, leaning forward and pressing his lips to Lincoln’s forehead, down the side of his nose, and the corner of his mouth. “It’s all right,” he breathed, his hands cupping Lincoln’s cheeks as he captured Lincoln’s lips in a slow and tender kiss.

He laid Lincoln out on the bed under him, pressing their bodies together, kissing him more deeply as he began to rock his hips. And while Lincoln bucked his hips to match the roll of Rhett’s, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of Rhett’s underwear, and pulled open a few tattered buttons in order to free Rhett from them.

Kissed breathless, Rhett pulled back, looking down at Lincoln with hair curling into his eyes, his lips swollen and pink. He rolled himself onto the bed, laying out at Lincoln’s side as he slipped free of the last cotton barrier that separated their skin.

Rhett took himself into his own hand, pressing his head against the mattress while he laid his other hand out across Lincoln’s thigh. He began to pump the hand encircling his length in long, slow strokes. His lashes fluttered and the tips of his fingers pressed divots into Lincoln’s skin.

Lincoln rolled onto his side, tracing a line down Rhett’s body, sliding closer and laying himself against Rhett’s body, tucking himself under Rhett’s arm. With the softest touch, his fingertips ghosted across Rhett’s stomach and over his navel, just beginning to tease at the hairs below Rhet’’s navel when he spoke. “Can I?” he asked, letting his mouth hang slack.

Rhett’s chest gave a small heave and he nodded. His hand fell to his side and his entire body shuddered when Lincoln’s hand replaced it. He gnawed at his lower lip and his fingernails dragged stinging lines up Lincoln’s back.

Lincoln wet his lips and pressed them to Rhett’s pecs and ribs, moving his body to hover over Rhett before crawling over his thigh and settling between his knees. His hand only ceased its slow stroking for a moment before it began to move with greater purpose.

“Feels so good…” Rhett groaned. He ran his hand over his chest and up his neck to knot into his beard. “Link…” he moaned into the palm that now cupped his mouth.

Lincoln got up on his knees and worked Rhett faster still, his other hand gripping tightly to the side of Rhett’s hip.

Rhett slid a little closer and angled his body until it was perfectly in line with Lincoln’s. He met Lincoln’s gaze and held it as he drew his long index and middle fingers into his mouth, wetting them from base to tip.

Watching Rhett reach down between his legs and press his slick fingers into himself was nearly too much for Lincoln to take. His arousal twitched in his lap, the tip of it brushing against Rhett’s thigh. His hand stilled and his mouth went dry, his breath catching in his throat as he watched one, and then a second finger disappear between Rhett’s cleft.

A high moan and several sluggish, breathy gasps spilled from Rhett’s mouth as Lincoln looked down at him. His lips were wet and shining, kissed red and plump. He rutted himself against Lincoln, thrusting into his hand. His lower lip began to tremble as he tried to form words.

Lincoln leaned forward over Rhett’s body, holding himself up on a single curled fist.

Rhett craned his neck enough to touch his lips to Lincoln’s stubbled chin. “I want you,” he whispered, his mouth slipping away, leaving his forehead to rest in the wet mark his lips hd left behind.

Lincoln breathed out a low growl into Rhett’s hair, now firmly squeezing Rhett’s hardness.

“I want you to take me.” The hand between Rhett’s legs slipped free and began to pull at Lincoln’s hip, pressing Lincoln’s erection against the skin his fingers had wet.

Stars danced across Lincoln’ vision, like someone had been starving him of breath; his pulse screamed in his ears as the shells warmed. His grip on Rhett weakened and his fingers began to tremble. “I don’t… I don’t know what to…”

Smoothing his hand over Lincoln’s backside, Rhett let out a hot, long breath down Lincoln’s chest. “It’s okay…” he soothed before letting himself fall back into the sheets. “I’ll show you.” He brought a cupped hand to his mouth and then reached down to encircle Lincoln.

“Oh shi—!” Lincoln gasped, his length twitching as Rhett coated him in slick warmth.

Rhett bent his knees, opening himself until Lincoln was pressed to his entrance. “Like this,” he said, rolling his hips forward until the tip of Lincoln pushed into him.

The muscles in Lincoln’s arm began to tremble, his elbow feeling like it could buckle under his weight at any moment. He felt himself wrapped in Rhett’s tight heat and he could barely breathe. He steadied himself by shifting back up onto his knees, his palms coming to rest cupped over Rhett’s knees.

“Mmm,” Rhett breathed out long and slow. “Keep going,” he encouraged, placing his hand over one of Lincoln’s, his fingers gliding over tight tendons.

Steeling his nerves and calming the pounding of his heart, Lincoln gripped Rhett’s knees and pressed into him slowly, his eyes searching Rhett’s for any sign that he should stop, and when none came, he rocked forward until he was flush with Rhett’s skin. His breath quivered his lip as he spoke.

“Rhett?” A drop of sweat beaded down his brow. “Is… is this—”

“It’s perfect,” Rhett hushed, his brow creased as he chewed at his lip. “Don’t stop.”

At that, something came undone inside Lincoln, like someone had pulled at a tiny dangling thread and now the world was falling apart. He held fast to Rhett’s knee — letting his other hand glide down over his thigh to settle on his hip — and let instinct take the place of trepidation.

The two of them moved together like they were made to fit. Lincoln curled forward, pressing Rhett’s thigh to his chest just to get a taste of his name on Rhett’s tongue. And all the while, Rhett marked Lincoln’s skin with passion, his mouth pulling colour to the surface of his throat and shoulders, his nails raising lines along the planes of his back.

It was a moment Lincoln wished he could hold onto for an eternity. He was whole here in this tiny flat, complete in the arms of the man beneath him, but his body was betraying him. It begged for release, and clenching the muscles of his core would only prevent it crashing over him for so long. Rhett’s heat, his touch, his soft pleas and panted breath, each one a violent shove closer to the edge.

“Rhett—” he gasped, gripping Rhett’s shoulder as he toed the line. “Rhett… I’m… I can’t—”

Rhett knotted their fingers together in the sheets, taking himself in the other hand and working his flesh, his forehead pressed tight to Lincoln’s own. “Let go,” he whispered.

Every inch of Lincoln’s skin felt like a live wire. Every place where Rhett’s skin touched his was scorched as his body jerked through the first waves of his climax.

“Oh Rhett!” he called before pulling ragged breath into his lungs, struggling to keep his body upright when the last of his erratic strokes were slickened further by his own release.

Though wave after wave of the most indescribable bliss had begun to cloud his vision, Lincoln kept his eyes on Rhett, on the hand that helped him reach the same end. He listened to the perfect sound of Rhett calling out his name as he spilled over his hand and stomach.

Lincoln collapsed on Rhett’s chest, his softening member slipping free, both of them heaving for breath, skin still tingling in the aftermath. Rhett smoothed a hand over Lincoln’s back while the other gently cradled his head.

“That was…” Lincoln stuttered. “Rhett… I… was it…”

Rhett wrapped Lincoln tighter in his arms. “You were wonderful… just wonderful…” Rhett’s voice was warm with comfort.

There was no response Lincoln could conceive that would do this experience justice, and so they laid like that, silently wrapped together — their hearts pounding against one another’s — until Rhett shifted under Lincoln’s weight.

He held Lincoln close as he turned onto his side, laying Lincoln out next to him. He used a folded edge of the sheet to wipe their bodies clean and then freed the quilt that was bunched at their feet to drape over them.

Lincoln tucked himself under Rhett’s arm, laying his cheek on the moist skin of Rhett’s flushed chest. He listened to Rhett’s breathing even out, feeling the deepening of his breath with the hand resting across his body. Rhett’s muscles began to twitch ever so slightly as he to drifted into the early stages of sleep. Though exhausted and raw with a swell of unfamiliar sensation, Lincoln held onto consciousness, fighting to urge to follow Rhett into sleep, clinging to it all with the desperation of the last summer leaves in autumn.

  
  


Lincoln wasn’t sure how long he laid there listening to the rhythmic beating of Rhett’s heart — his cheek rising and falling with each of Rhett’s slow deep breaths — but the lamp was now extinguished, its fuel run dry, and the beginnings of rain had begun to patter the roof. For how long tears had been trickling down his cheeks to pool in the center of Rhett’s chest, he had no idea, not until Rhett drew in a quick sharp breath and yawned awake.

“You’re still up?” he groggily asked, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes, stretching his arms over his head, smiling wide and soft.

Lincoln returned Rhett’s gentle expression, but there was artifice in it, and it surely appeared as insincere as it felt.

“Link?” Rhett reached down to curl his finger under Lincoln’s chin. “What is it? What’s wrong?” His worried brow and concerned eyes only made it ache even more.

“It’s…” Lincoln said, lifting himself up on a bent elbow. “It’s nothing.”

“Link, I—”

A kiss was all it took to silence Rhett’s protest, his questions. Not yet. Not now. Lincoln warmed his hand over his own thigh and then Rhett’s, their mouths separating long enough for Rhett to plead with him once more.

“Please… I—”

“Shh,” Lincoln hushed, fingertip gliding up to tease at the soft skin of Rhett’s inner thigh. “I don’t need you to talk,” he said, drawing on every modicum of composure that he had left to keep from falling apart. “I need you to touch me,” he breathed, the corner of his lower lip pulled taut between his teeth.

A low growl emanated from deep in Rhett’s chest and rumbled through the air between them. His hooded eyes were dark with lust, his brows stitching together above them as he reached across his body to take Lincoln in his hand.

“Not like that,” Lincoln whispered, his fingers wrapping around Rhett’s wrist. They locked eyes and Lincoln’s breath began to come more rapidly before he spoke again. “Like this.” He pushed Rhett’s hand between his legs so that Rhett’s fingers tickled the flat stretch of skin just in front of his cleft.

“Link…” Rhett’s fingertips teased at the skin they touched. “I don’t… you’re not ready for this…”

“Just…” Lincoln’s brows creased and he pulled Rhett’s mouth to his. “I need to know what it… what you feel like.” He kissed the soft hairs on Rhett’s cheek and chin. “Please… just try,” he breathed, capturing just the corner of Rhett’s mouth before he turned away enough to speak.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he whispered.

Lincoln brought his lips to Rhett’s ear. “You won’t…”

Rhett's thumb tracied down Lincoln’s jaw as their eyes met. “You’re sure?” he asked, his gaze dropping to Lincoln’s mouth.

Lincoln covered Rhett’s hand with his own. “Yes.”

  
  


_**September 13, 1940: Tadcaster, Yorkshire, UK.** _

Lincoln woke after what felt like only a moment's rest. His shoulder ached along with the rest of his body, the sting of the wound still nagging even though it had nearly healed. He closed his eyes, willing the memories of the night before to surface, to feel it all over again, but the sun had begun to creep in the window, the heat of it warming his skin through the blankets.

Rhett lay rolled away, his breathing deep and peppered with slight snores.

Lincoln raised his hand to place it on Rhett’s bare shoulder, but stopped just shy of his skin. He drew in a deep sigh and carefully shifted himself out of bed, and walked to the window. He pulled back the sheers and stared out over the serenity of a town still veiled in sleep.

He dressed in the clothes Rhett had laundered for him, his white shirt still stained a deep brown. He closed the buttons and then sat down at the table to put on his socks and shoes, all the while attempting to memorize every tiny detail of his surroundings. How the picture on the wall above the bed now hung crooked. How the shelves were stacked with haphazard piles of papers, music, and books. How perfect it all was in each and every way it was imperfect.

He plucked his jacket from the back of the arm chair and slipped it on over his shoulders, tucking his journal into the inside pocket, and turned back to the bed. His fingers trembled as he reached out for hat that sat perched on the bedpost. As he traced the emblem above the brim, he sat down softly on the foot of the bed.

Rhett began to stir, the blankets shifting over his long body, the sunlight catching in his golden hair.

Lincoln winced, setting the hat down over his knee and turned away toward the window.

“Link?” Rhett’s groggy voice was tinged with a hint of panic and Lincoln could feel the bed jar beneath him.

“I’m still here,” Lincoln said, his hollow voice weighing heavy in the air.

There was a long moment of silence, during which Lincoln couldn’t bring himself to meet the gaze he could feel on his back.

“But you have to go.”

Lincoln’s eyes stung, wetness welling in their corners as he fought back the tears. He turned to Rhett only to see the same pain mirrored back. “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks for taking this journey with me! I'll give you the end of this story someday... I promise! <3
> 
> RTR <3
> 
>  **Art for This Chapter:**  
>  By: Magicbubblepipe  
> [Blissed out Lincoln (NSFW)](http://remembertherandler.tumblr.com/post/165841040375/magicbubblepipe-so-heres-an-illustration-i-did)  
> [Rhett and Lincoln in bed](http://remembertherandler.tumblr.com/post/165841425980/magicbubblepipe-more-two-fronts-d-because-you)  
> [Together at last (NSFW)](http://magicbubblepipe.tumblr.com/post/166020608165/remembertherandler-decided-it-was-time-for-me-to)  
> 


	20. A Home in the Clouds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Recommended Listening:**   
>  [Vantablack - Novo Amor & Ed Tullett](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d_QCqAD7pn4)   
>  [Ekki múkk - Sigur Rós](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=INWZy3-Vw80)   
>  [Bayou - Mountains of the Moon ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V5i7awRSywk)   
>  [If I'm To Die - Keaton Hanson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V3pwPgRwGmI&feature=youtu.be)

_**September 13, 1940: RAF Church Fenton, Yorkshire, UK.** _

“Neal... No.”

“I’m fine! I can fly, dammit!”

Lincoln’s squadron were dressing hurriedly in their flight gear, locker doors squeaking on their hinges. All the while, Lincoln’s face was hot with frustration as he stood still in their midst. The call had come in from RAF Kingsnorth that they were planning a raid over the channel, to knock back the German forces while they were still reeling. Lincoln had arrived to the other squadron’s planes taxiing toward the airstrip, his own squadron shoveling in the last bites of lunch.

“Lincoln,” Tim said, his grip tightening. “Lincoln, listen to me.” He clapped his other hand over Lincoln’s bicep. “I know you think you’re ready—”

“I am ready!”

Tim closed his eyes and wet his lips before meeting Lincoln’s gaze and speaking again. “You just walked through the doors. You’ve not been seen by Dr. Bluth. You’ve not been here for drills all week, and I’m sorry, but I refuse to send you up on cold wings.” 

“But—”

“I’m sorry, Lincoln.”

With a frustrated groan, Lincoln shrugged free of Tim’s hold, dropping to the bench, deflated. He buried his face in his hands, fingers digging into his hair.

“I just can’t…” Tim said before turning away to finish pulling on his gear.

Lincoln’s squadron mates wouldn’t meet his eyes, focusing instead on their laces and buckles. The rustle of fabric and metal clasps were not enough to distract from the clear and uncomfortable silence that stifled the air. With teeth ground together so hard the muscles in his jaw began to ache, Lincoln got up, slammed his fist into his closed locker, and stormed away down the hall toward the barracks.

The flash of the base warning lights flickered across the drab paint of the corridor, and through the small windows in the door at its end, Lincoln paused to watch as several Hawker Hurricanes took to the air.

Lincoln turned away, squinting in pain as he gnawed the inside of his lower lip raw. He shoved open the swinging doors of H-Block, letting them slam into the walls as he stalked toward his bunk. He threw his bag into his bed and sank into the mattress, shoulders slumping forward. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands until the blackness behind his eyelids flickered with darting blue lights.

As his blurry vision began to clear, a small stack of papers and letters came into focus on the nightstand next to him. Several of them were small folded scraps of paper — some torn from notebooks and others scraps of old notices posted on bulletin boards — all of them scribbled with notes of condolences from other pilots on the base. Lincoln read only one before setting them all aside and leafing through the rest.

Finally, he tore into a letter from the medical office and thumbed over news he wished he could be happier to hear. The X-rays had confirmed the damage to his shoulder was more superficial than anything, but that he should report to medical upon his return to base for an examination. He crammed the letter back into the envelope and turned over the next.

His heart fluttered out of step with its beat. Though the envelope was littered with stamps and labels that had directed it on its journey, they did little to obscure the familiar writing that had addressed it. Julie’s writing. The letter was postmarked August 30th, so the Julie who had written this letter had not yet received his.

Lincoln’s hands trembled, the pad of his finger tracing over the return address. He shook with nerves, tapping the envelope on his knee and tearing of a small strip from the end. He reached inside to pull out a single folded sheet of paper. As he began to read the words, his eyes glistened with tears that would surely soon streak his cheeks.

  


_August 30th, 1940_

_Lincoln,_

_I’ve started this letter countless times. My floor is littered with crumpled balls of paper covered in the beginnings of things I thought I wanted to say. The truth is, I have no idea what to say, but I’m sitting here again, at this desk under this lamp with a pen in my hand, and so I’m just going to try to say anything at all. I suppose there’s nothing better to start with than how I feel. You hurt me, Lincoln._

_When you left, you promised you’d write, that you’d tell me when you were being shipped halfway across the world, and you didn’t. Although, I think what hurts most of all is that, when you held me in your arms, I thought that you cared._

_Garrett told me everything. What you did… ~~Who it~~ It should have come from you, Lincoln. I think I always knew I wasn’t enough, that I wasn’t what you wanted, that there was a distance between us that you never wanted to close and I couldn’t leap across. And please don’t try to tell me I’m wrong. I know that I’m not. Though I do want you to know that you could have told me the truth, and that I would have stood by you as a friend._

_Even though I want to be angry, all I can truly say that I feel for you now is pity, and I don’t want that for you. Don’t be the kind of man that others pity, Lincoln._

_I’ve written back to Garrett. He’s no doubt reading my letter right beside you, or perhaps miles away, after all that’s happened. I can only hope that you can make things right with him, because what the two of you have is special._

_Be well, Charlie._

_Jules_

  


Lincoln’s fingers tensed, curled into the sheet of paper, nearly crumpling it; instead, he pressed it to his chest as his body collapsed over his knees. He wept, his tears falling to his feet, unable to stop the sobs that soon heaved from his chest.

He stayed like that — folded over on himself until the streaks of fallen tears down his cheeks ran dry — until the roar of the engines in the airfield had faded into the distance, and when the room was bereft of every sound but that of a hanging clock’s mechanical tick, he sat up slowly. He reached across the bed for his bag and pulled out his journal, refolding the letter and tucking it between the last few blank pages before placing the journal under his pillow.

His head had begun to pound just the way it had the last time he’d sat on this bunk, the way it does when you cry yourself to the last tear. He shoved the rest of his things off the end of the bed and curled into himself on top of the blankets. He laid there for a few short moments, staring blankly at the neat row of identical bunks, when a tentative voice called from the door to the barracks.

“Hello?”

Lincoln shot up, his feet swinging out and righting his body.

“Is that you in there, Neal?”

Lincoln recognized Dr. Bluth’s voice, the faint hints of his German ancestry working their way through the cracks of his accent rather distinct. “Yeah,” Lincoln said, clearing his throat, “I’m here.”

“Ah, yes.” Dr. Bluth tucked his clipboard under his arm and shuffled across the room.

Lincoln got to his feet as Dr. Bluth rounded the end of his bunk. He was a stout man, solid and well-built; his hair greyed at the temples, and his forehead was creased with concentration and concern’s furrows, etched more deeply with every day that passed.

“No, no,” Dr. Bluth said, reaching out a hand. “You sit.” He flipped open his chart and slid on his reading glasses.

Lincoln sat back down as the doctor did the same on the opposite bunk.

“And how are we feeling?”

“Fine,” Lincoln lied.

Dr. Bluth removed his glasses, and set the chart down on his lap. “I trust you received my notice?” he asked.

Lincoln nodded, avoiding the doctor’s searching eyes.

“Rather a good bit of news, I should think.” Dr. Bluth gave weak smile.

“Lucky break, huh?” Lincoln huffed a short exasperated breath out through his nose.

Dr. Bluth returned his gaze to the chart, but without his glasses, Lincoln knew he wasn’t reading. The air was heavy between them, pregnant with the shared knowledge that there was no right thing to say.

“We don’t need to do this now,” Dr. Bluth said, softly breaking the silence. “You come by and see me in the—”

“Now is fine,” Lincoln interjected.

Dr. Bluth nodded, his lips pressed together in an apprehensive smile as he slid forward to the edge of the bunk. “Let’s have a look at it then.”

Lincoln pulled his shirt free of his trousers and began opening the buttons, his gaze cast at the flecks of black in the white linoleum. The now-small bandage covered his wound and barely caught on the fabric of his shirt as he shrugged it from his shoulders.

“My heavens!” The doctor moved closer, rushing to slide his glasses on and giving them a final shove up his nose. He gently directed Lincoln to lean his shoulder into the light. “That’s healed very nicely, it seems.” He pulled on a glove that he had stashed in the front pocket of his white coat and pressed softly at the edges of the bandage. “Much pain?”

“In the shoulder?” Lincoln looked up from the floor. “No.”

“And now?” Dr. Bluth outstretched Lincoln’s arm, holding him by the wrist as he rolled the shoulder joint back and forth.

Lincoln shook his head.

“Well,” he said as he guided Lincoln’s arm back to his side, “I certainly see no need to undress it here.” Dr. Bluth snapped off the glove and tossed it into the waste paper bin at the head of the bunk. “You’ve been nursing it well.”

“I’ve not done a thing.” Lincoln said, despondent and quiet.

Dr. Bluth slid back and gestured for him to dress. “Well someone has.”

Lincoln slowly buttoned his shirt. He could see that Dr. Bluth continued to speak, but his words fell away into a hum of background noise as Lincoln’s mind drifted through the trees and fields, along worn paths and cobbled street to a dusty loft bathed in morning light.

When he’d heard Rhett stir, he wished the night had granted him a few moments more — that he could have kept the sunlight creeping across the floorboards at bay. He longed to say anything but goodbye, and held tight in warm arms as he was finally forced to whisper it in Rhett’s ear… it took every ounce of resolve he’d managed to muster.

Rhett didn’t protest with his words, he needn’t. More was spoken in the silence than words could ever hope to convey. Running his hands over the broad planes of Rhett’s back, Lincoln could feel the shudder of loss in his breath. Listening to the beating of Rhett’s heart, he could sense the words he was holding back. When their eyes met for the last time, just before he turned to leave, Lincoln could see a silent plea for him to remain, and it tore the heart from his chest.

“Neal?”

“Sorry. I…” Lincoln shook his head, the coolly lit barracks coming back into focus. “I didn’t… Could you repeat that?”

Dr. Bluth breathed a soft sigh. “I had said to come see me for a reflex and range of motion analysis tomorrow morning at eight, but I’ll be adding a concussion recheck now,” he smiled, jotting a note on Lincoln’s file. “But I don’t foresee any issue with you returning to light duties, at the very least.”

“Light duties?”

“Mmm,” Dr. Bluth hummed, flipping the chart paper and scribbling in the margins. “Training exercises, fitness training, and the like…” he paused, silently mouthing his own notes back to himself.

“That’s it?”

“Well, we’ll find out for certain in the morning.” The doctor looked up, removing his glasses and letting them hang from the chain around his neck. “But that alone is quite an accomplishment, I’d say. One week out from the kind of injury that’s ended the careers of some, taken limb and life from others.”

Lincoln sighed in frustration.

“I can see you’re anxious to get back to it, for the distraction, I’m sure.” He slid his pen into his breast pocket. “But we certainly don’t want to rush you back and risk re-injury.”

He got up and placed a hand over Lincoln’s shoulder, giving it a quick pat.

“I’m fine...” Lincoln tried to keep his tone even, but his words were sharp with a slight edge of anger.

“That may well be,” Dr. Bluth said, his hand tracing over the bare mattress above Lincoln’s. “And we’ll find out for certain tomorrow, but for now, I just want you to rest and settle in.”

“But—”

“Tomorrow morning at eight, Mr. Neal.”

  


_**September 14, 1940: RAF Church Fenton, Yorkshire, UK.** _

Lincoln hated hospitals. He always had. It had probably stemmed from an emergency visit when he’d broken his arm as a child after falling out of a tree on the plantation. It wasn’t overly traumatic, not really, there was just something unnerving in their sanitary nature — something unsettling in the way the air rested on the senses — and though this little exam room was really just a glorified closet, it smelled clinical, of alcohol and iodine, of lemon floor wax tinged with iron. It turned Lincoln’s stomach, and he was made no more comfortable sitting on the cold leather surface of the examination table.

The tick of the clock on the wall behind him was so loud he was sure it must be broken, or just toying with him. He wrung his hands together until his knuckles ached. The waiting was excruciating.

During the exam, he’d tried his best to hide how the backward flex of his shoulder sent a searing shock of pain running from his shoulder up his neck, but when the doctor outstretched his arm and asked him to hold it steady as he applied downward pressure, a grimace flashed across his features before he could tuck it away.

“Well, Mr. Neal…” Dr. Bluth meandered into the room, eyes on his chart, stepping aside of the door to close it.

Lincoln sat up a little straighter.

“Seems there’s still some tenderness,” he said, sitting down on the cushioned stool in front of Lincoln. “But I think you’ll be just fine.”

Lincoln’s heart leapt. “Full duties?”

The doctor smiled. “Full duties,” he nodded.

Relief, pure and true, flooded through him. “Thank—” Lincoln’s voice caught as he stood up. “Thank you, sir!” He reached out and took the doctor’s hand, giving it an enthusiastic shake, closing his other hand over it. “Thank you so much!”

“You’re a lucky fellow, Lincoln.” Dr. Bluth stood, setting Lincoln’s chart aside.

“I know, sir.”

“You get off to training now. They’ll be waiting on you.”

Lincoln smiled and finally ceasing his exuberant handshake and heading for the door.

“Take it easy on that shoulder, now.”

“I will, sir,” Lincoln said, pulling open the door.

“And stop calling me, ‘sir’!” Dr. Bluth waved his arm dismissively. “Makin’ me feel older than the hills.” 

Lincoln smiled in amusement, patting the door frame with a wide palm. “Sorry, sir.”

~~~ * ~~~

_It’s like riding a bicycle._ Lincoln had never thought much of the adage, and wasn’t a firm believer that there was any truth to most of them, but he couldn’t express his relief that at least this one seemed to hold water. As he soared through the skies over Yorkshire in formation with his squadron, he relished the familiar comfort of the air beneath his wings, and — despite the emptiness that sat hollow in his chest at the somber realization that Garrett’s plane would never again be among them — he felt a step closer to whole.

At dinner that evening, he’d been one of the last to find his seat, and the table had fallen into near-silence as he sat down; he’d swallowed around the lump in his throat before speaking to break it. He asked about the raid the day before, and as the others began to share their stories, the eggshells they’d been treading on were slowly swept away. The conversation was tentative, but for the first time since his return to base, he didn’t feel like they were handling like something that might break.

As they readied for bed that night, Lincoln sifted through his trunk for a clean shirt and underpants. Under a roughly folded jacket, Lincoln uncovered something that sent a jolt through his heart: Garrett’s officer’s side cap lay flattened on the bottom next to his own.

Lincoln reached down and picked it up, unfolding it carefully and placing his hand inside to round out the brim. A small smear of black spread out from a burnt hole in the wool. Garrett had taken it off at a pub in Ottawa the night before they’d embarked on their journey to England, and the fallen ashes from his cigarette had forever left their mark. It had been stashed away ever since.

Lincoln sighed, leaning over the top bunk. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, gripping hat in his hands before setting it down in the middle of the bare mattress.

He gathered his things, tossing a towel around his neck, and headed for the showers. He passed by the bunks of many others who were already bedded down, some quietly reading by lamplight, while others were already snoring softly.

When he reached the bathroom, it was empty, save for Fairfax. The young man was standing at one of the sinks, rinsing shaving cream from his his cheeks and toweling them dry. He caught Lincoln’s reflection in the mirror and offered a small smile.

“It’s all yours,” he said, tapping his razor on the edge of the sink and rinsing away the last of the shaving suds. He nodded as he passed by Lincoln and headed down the corridor.

“Thanks,” Lincoln said softly over his shoulder.

The cool tile floor was wet under his feet as he made his way toward the showers. He didn’t bother to turn on the light, leaving the room obscured in the dim glow trickling in from the adjacent dressing room. He hung his towel on one of the hooks along the wall and began to strip down. When he stood in only his undergarments, he looked down his body. Along the lines of his hip, a faint purple blemish peeked out from the band of his underwear. He traced it with his thumb, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment before he slid free of his last garment and stepped into the shower.

The water washed over his skin, hot without scalding. All around him the room filled with steam, and he drifted into the haze of it. He leaned his back against the tiled wall, listening to the spray of water rushing past him splash down at his feet.

“I miss you,” he muttered, water running down the bridge of his nose. “Both of you…”

  


_**September 15, 1940: RAF Church Fenton, Yorkshire, UK.** _

The morning brought with it hazy, grey light, fog shrouding the horizon. A Sunday on base was typically restful — no drills, no training — but Lincoln ate quickly, and didn’t follow as the others left for town to attend Sunday services. Instead, he headed out for the track, for the rut they’d run into the grass on an unused part of the airfield.

He jogged laps, unsure of how much time had passed. He’d watched the church-goers return, watched the faint glow of the sun burn through the fog only to reveal a steel-grey sky. He ran until the muscles in his legs burned and then ran through the pain until only numbness remained. His heart pounded, steady and strong in his chest as he slowed to an eventual stop, leaning over, palms wrapped over his thighs as he rounded the corner of the track nearest the base.

“Thought you hated laps.”

Lincoln smiled, recognizing the voice even though it sounded from behind him. “I do,” he said, lifting his t-shirt over his face to wipe the sweat from his brow. He straightened up and turned around.

Tim smiled back, flicking a lighter in front of the cigarette that was pinched between his lips, and then offered the one tucked behind his ear to Lincoln.

“I’m fine, thanks,” he politely refused.

Tim shrugged and drew in a long breath before blowing out a thick cloud as he spoke. “I spoke to Dr. Bluth yesterday, you might have guessed.”

“Mmm,” Lincoln hummed. “I supposed you had when you didn’t haul me out of my plane yesterday.”

Tim nodded. “He seemed pretty confident you’re medically fit to return, and I’ve no doubt he’s right.” He stepped a little closer. “But are _you_ sure you’re ready?”

A short silence followed the question as Lincoln looked over Tim’s shoulder at the line of Spitfires that ran along the hangar. “Yes.”

“Because it’s okay if you need more—”

“I’m ready.”

“I just don’t want you to think you have anything to pro—”

“Sir,” Lincoln said, closing a hand over Tim’s shoulder. “I’m ready.” He looked Tim in the eye, no hesitation in his words or expression. “I need to do this.”

They smiled at each other for only a moment before the air rang out with the shriek of alarm — the horns mounted on the buildings and guardhouse hollering out and echoing off the surrounding hills.

Before either of them spoke, they were off and running toward the barracks where the corridors were alive with teeming bodies all rushing off to their posts.

“Do you know what’s happening?” Lincoln asked as they rushed to their lockers.

Tim stopped abruptly, grabbing hold of the arm of the Squadron Number 121 flight commander who was passing by. The two spoke briskly about flight patterns before parting with a shared pat on the back.

“I can only guess it’s a counterstrike,” Tim said. “I suspect the Luftwaffe thinks we’re on the ropes over here.” He shoved through a crowded doorway, hand wrapped around Lincoln’s arm to pull him along. “Want to exploit the perceived weakness.”

“Are we?” Lincoln asked, stopping short of his locker. His body was alive with nervous energy, his heart hammering in his chest. This was where he needed to be, he knew that, but he couldn’t help the tingle of fear that had the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. “On the ropes?”

Tim stopped, facing away from Lincoln and looked up at the ceiling. “We may be.” He turned to face Lincoln. “But I’m not sure it matters either way… our duty is the same.” He opened Lincoln’s locker and plucked his flight helmet from the hook. “You sure you’re ready?”

Lincoln looked at the others around them, all of them dressing and preparing to take to the skies, no matter the consequence, and then at the empty locker next to his own before meeting Tim’s eyes once again.

“Yes.”

Tim smiled and handed Lincoln the helmet. “Then suit up, lad,” he winked. “We’ve got a job to do.”

~~~ * ~~~

Breaking through the cloud bank, that was always Lincoln’s favorite part of flying. It was like another world, soaring between the layers of white. Even the calls coming in over the radio couldn’t tarnish this moment, but the reality of what he was flying into was impossible to ignore.

The Germans had launched a massive bombing raid. According to reports, there were more German aircraft over the channel and the county of Kent than anyone had ever seen. London was under heavy fire, and though the voices on the radio seemed collected and confident, there was an edge of panic in the way that first-hand accounts were coming in. Communication was choppy this far from the city, but several muddled mayday calls came over the lines, and several other calls went completely unanswered.

Tim had them move off the main radio channel after receiving the details of their assignment and, when the airwaves fell silent, they let them remain so for a few moments, a breather from the chaos, before organizing themselves into their flight formation.

Lincoln gathered with his team and took his place in the lead position. They set their heading for the coast, the air over the channel where he’d met the Luftwaffe in battle before. It would be their job to aid in fending off the largest bombing squadron to ever have been reported crossing the channel.

The clouds below them began to thin as they drew closer to the coast, but the air was just as grey. Smoke lifted from the earth and flecks of fire rose up from buildings that had begun to spot the countryside. Buildings lay toppled over, the earth blackened where the shells had ripped it open, the fragility of it all laid bare beneath him. Nothing was certain.

Today could well be the last of his life, and he’d never really given much thought to death, or how his own might come, before suffering the devastation of what real loss truly was. So quickly a vibrant and happy life can be snuffed out, Garrett’s was ripped away in an instant, and as a pilot, it was all to clear that he was living on borrowed time.

His mother’s face flashed through his mind. She’d never wanted this for him, the very thought of it had brought tears streaming down her face. Could she forgive him for what he’d done? For the lies? If he never made it home, would she ever know how sorry he was? Even though he felt his father had always been standing in his way, he knew he couldn’t fault him for wanting more than a soldier’s death for his son. Would he ever get the chance to thank him?

Ahead of them, the smoke no longer billowed up from the ground, but instead spread out from pinpricks of flashing light in the distant sky. It wasn’t long before the sound of it began to rumble inside Lincoln’s lungs. They pressed forward until the reality of what they were to face came into focus.

It was like someone had jolted him with a thousand volts of electricity. His fingers tingled on the controls, the hair on his arms prickling up inside the sleeves of his flight suit. The sky was alive with the chaos of war. He could barely keep track of target and ally, but his flight team had been tasked with taking out the bomber escort, and the yellow nose cone of the Messerschmitt 109s stood out among the grey backdrop. Soon enough, the calls over his radio faded into the background of his consciousness; he took in every word without hearing a single one. He fired on the enemy, watching them plummet from the sky, one after the other. His hands didn’t tremble as they nearly always did, they were steady on the controls as he banked though the sky.

Though his squadron, and the other RAF pilots that shared the sky with them, were impossibly outnumbered, they had managed to cut deeply into the German ranks, but more planes continued to burst through the cloud bank. Lincoln’s skin was flushed with the heat of an anger that was building up inside of him. He wouldn’t let them win. He chased down a small fighter team leading two larger bombers that dipped down below the fray in an attempt to bypass their defences.

He called out to his wingmen and Fairfax answered back. They followed after Lincoln as he laid down heavy fire and the engines of the German fighters soon began to sputter and smoke. Another flight team laid down cover fire from above, but before Lincoln could nail down the last of the bombers, he heard the sickening blows of bullets ricocheting off his fuselage.

The water of the Channel came into view as he dipped and banked to avoid the onslaught of fire, his wingmen having peeled off to circle behind the line of fire. They called out for him to bank left, and so he did. Bullets rained down next to him, water splashing up in their wake as they struck the sea below, but as the lights of his control panel began to flash and the beeps of alarms began to sound in his cabin, he knew his plane wasn’t long for the skies.

 ** _“Red team! Read team!”_** Tim called over the radio.

“We’re under pressure down here!” Lincoln hollered back. “I’m hit. She’s smokin’ up!”

Lincoln willed his plane to circle around, and watched as his wingmen closed in, hot on the tail of a German fighter. Plumes of smoke billowed out from the rear of its cockpit, but the pilot still had control and was being tailed by his own wingmen. Fairfax was boxed in, Lincoln could see it as clear as day. The gap in their own formation had created an opening, and the Germans were about to exploit it.

**_“I can see her smokin’ from ‘ere!”_** Tim said before calling out a command to another flight group. His voice rang out across the airwaves again, screaming at Lincoln. _**“She’s gonna go down! Bail out, Neal!”**_

********

********

**__**

**__**

Lincoln watched in horror as the box began to close around Fairfax

**_“Oh shit!”_** Fairfax radioed out. _**“I’m pinned in. I’m pinned in.”**_

**_“Get outta there, the lot of ya! Bail out, Lincoln! Dammit!”_ **

“I can’t do that, sir,” Lincoln said, checking his gauges and quieting some of the emergency alarms. “I’m sorry.”

**_“Lincoln! Don’t be a fool—”_ **

With a flick of a switch, silence. He swallowed back the fear, pushing the reality of the choice he was about to make from his mind. He pulled in a deep, full breath, and fueled with adrenaline, Lincoln banked hard to the left and began to climb, pushing his failing engine to the limit to round on the entire group.

As he open-fired on the pilot tailing Fairfax, his engine sputtered and groaned. He did his best to keep his sight steady, laying down the line of fire over the target area behind the Messerschmitt’s cockpit. He felt his own engine give out just as the German plane he fired on exploded into flames.

Free of his tail, Fairfax pulled up and out, followed by the other Red Team winger. The two of them managed to take down the last German fighter, who had peeled off from the group, as they made their ascent.

“Atta boys,” Lincoln smiled, watching as they climbed up through the sky to join the others.

He closed his eyes for a moment before looking out at the scene before him. The water was coming up fast, but he’d never felt so truly like he was flying than he did in this moment. The engine had long died, and he was gliding through the air in near silence, the last of the alarms silenced, and the flashing lights of his dash gone out. The prop on the front of his plane spun slowly enough for him to see each blade as it sliced through the air. In the distance, the shoreline of Kent came into view. Its sheer, rocky cliffs were capped with high grass and dottings of teetering trees.

There was a serenity in knowing, a calmness in acknowledging the end, and he’d have been ready to accept it. But as the nose of the plane dipped, so too did his stomach, and he gasped at the sudden shift in the air around him. He felt a warmth wash over him, and he could suddenly hear the timbre of Rhett’s voice echoing in his memory, warm and smooth.

“Rhett…” Lincoln whispered, his eyes drifting closed. His skin began to tingle as the ghost of Rhett’s touch traced lines on his skin. This finality carried with it the end of something he wasn’t ready to give up.

Lincoln unclipped his belt, tightened the straps of his parachute and pulled the lever to pop the canopy. He knew the water was too close, knew that this effort was futile, but he refused to die without trying to live.

He stood and leapt into the air, ripping on the cord of his chute; the wind pulled it open and jerked him backward as he watched his plane crash into the water. It bobbed, the tail section detaching from the smoking engine before it was swallowed by the sea. There was a few serene moments of grey-blue sky and drifting clouds, but the water was so close, and his parachute couldn't capture the breeze. It snapped as it collapsed in a gust. A gut-wrenching spiraling toward the glimpse of white-capped water, and it all went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. I love you guys. So much.


	21. Something to Live for

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Recommended Listening:**   
>  [Atlantic- Sleeping At Last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ONqJpOASA3M)   
>  [You'll Be Okay - Michael Schulte](https://youtu.be/iS6ywB3x0l0)   
>  [Home - Craig Gallagher](https://youtu.be/x2OFV4GOHdQ)   
>  [Help Me - Low Roar](https://youtu.be/cN_5GGIihP0)   
>  [You Are The Reason - Callum Scott](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JcC5VGOx8I8&index=7&list=PLdAJh25RZJ6xeJMCElg3dP038Iu2EAL2Z)   
>  [Heart- Sleeping At Last](https://youtu.be/E6PmCym6eF4)   
> 

_**September 15, 1940: English Channel, UK.** _

In the heat of summer, the Channel’s waters are icy cold — like fire on the skin, burning every square inch it touches. But the Autumn brings with it a warming of the North Atlantic current that washes into the cold waters of the North Sea flowing through the thin strip of water that separates England and France.

Lincoln’s limp body sloshed in the choppy sea, unconscious, held up only by the buoyant life preserver slung around his neck. His limbs were tangled in lengths of parachute cord, the chute itself half sunken in the dark water. The waves broke against his side, washing over his face and filling his upturned flight goggles. It washed away the blood that seeped out of a deep gash on his forehead over his left eye.

The sun, tucked away behind grey clouds for days, split the sky overhead. Its light glinted off the peaking crests of water and gleamed on Lincoln’s wet skin. His brow furrowed and his eyelids began to twitch open.

Pain. It registered before any other sensation. His entire body ached with it. Each shallow breath he drew stung, his lungs feeling too large for his chest. He reached across his body and tugged at the tangled cord that pulled his arm over his head — wrenching on his wounded shoulder — but it wouldn’t give way. The pocket knife on his opposite hip was just out of reach. He twisted his body, and felt the dull ache below his right knee for the first time.

He cried out in agony as he snatched the knife from his belt. He flicked it open and sawed through the thick cord, freeing his other arm from the mess of tangled rope. He cut through the lengths that had wrapped around his waist and bound his thighs together. When he finally freed himself of the last wraps of cord, he righted himself in the water

His head was pounding and the world seemed surrounded by a halo of light. His vision blurred and doubled everything he saw, but through the confusing bombardment of senses, it was clear that the current and prevailing wind were on his side. He’d drifted close to shore; the white cliffs of southern England were unmistakable, even through his hazy vision. He was maybe a half mile swim from the rocky shoreline. He kicked his legs, but a rippling wave of agony shot through him.

His right leg was broken. He may have been nine years old when he’d felt a pain like this last, but the ache of a broken bone is distinct and unforgettable. He winced and cursed under his breath, cradling his leg for a moment as the pain dulled before he began to paddle with the current. He struggled to keep his head above water, clutching his broken leg and gasping in mouthfuls of the salty sea.

The pain and confusion tugged at his precarious state of consciousness, the edges of his vision darkening as he neared the shore. He fought back the urge to drift, to sleep, to let it all fall away, and just when he thought the last of his fight was gone, his foot dug into the gravel bottom. He stumbled, catching himself as he fell forward into the shallow water. The sharp rocks dug into the soft skin of his palms.

He dragged himself out of the heaving surf, pulling his body onto the finer rocks and rough sand. For as far as he could see, there was nothing but sheer white cliffs and a thin band of coastline at its base. With the last of his strength, he sat up and slid himself back against the cliff face and watched the waves blur out of focus as the sounds of the surf and seabirds faded into nothingness.

  
  


_**September 16, 1940: Hastings, East Sussex, UK.** _

Lincoln woke with a start, a sharp pain stabbing at his ribs. He opened his eyes and was confronted by an unfocused view of three stooped figures standing over him, blocking the bright rising sun that shone at their backs. One of them was prodding him with a long piece of driftwood.

“Guess he’s not dead after all.”

“I told ya so.”

“You’re sure he’s not a Jerry?”

“Pops, he’s wearin’ the blues. Calm down.”

“He could be an imposter. Can’t trust the damn Germans, you know that.”

Lincoln parted his chapped lips to speak, but the third man — his face largely obscured by a bushy, red beard — who’d been silent until now, spoke.

“The lad’s an Eagle for goodness sake, Henry.” He prodded Lincoln’s shoulder with the driftwood in his hand.

“An Eagle? He sure looks like a man to me.”

“An American, Henry,” the bearded man fired back. “Don’t you read the papers?”

The oldest man rolled his eyes and huffed out in frustration before pulling a cigar from his front pocket and lighting it. “That true?” he asked 

“Yes…I’m... That’s right, yes,” Lincoln stammered, still blinking free of the haze around his vision. “Where… Where am I?”

The men looked at each other for a moment before the oldest, grizzly-bearded man they called Henry, answered.

“The middle of nowhere, son,” Henry breathed out a thick cloud of smoke. “But I suppose the best answer is Hastings.”

Lincoln tried to get to his feet, but his body soon reminded him that it was broken. He sucked air sharply in through his teeth and fell back on his seat.

“Easy there, lad.” The quiet man dropped the driftwood and squatted down at Lincoln’s side. “You’re hurt?” he asked.

“My leg.” Lincoln pointed and watched the man part the fabric of his tattered trousers. “I think it’s broken.”

“You’re a pilot, right?” the young man with them asked.

Lincoln nodded.

“Mmm. Explains the broken leg. Bailed out of your plane, did you?” The bearded man continued to examine Lincoln as he nodded in response. “It’s not broken through the skin, but it’s swellin’ real good.” He looked up at Lincoln with a soft smile. “You took an awful knock on the noggin’ too, I’d say.”

“Oh?” And what gave you that idea, eh Malcom? The bleedin’ hole in his head? For cryin’ out loud. Ya think you’re so smart.” Henry reached into his pocket and pulled out a plaid handkerchief. “Here,” he said, handing it to Lincoln.

Lincoln smiled. “Thank you,” he said, taking the cloth a pressing it to the stinging wound on his brow. “How… how did you find me?”

“Don’t like bein’ out on the water with all that malarkey goin’ on up there.” Henry gestured to the sky. “Never know what might be in the clouds over your own head, or who might wash ashore. It’s just not safe.” He paused. “But the village has gotta eat, and so here we are.” Henry took a long drag of his cigar.

“The man didn’t ask for our life’s story, Henry,” Malcom teased.

Henry rolled his eyes and continued. “My son, Thomas, here,” Henry patted the young man’s shoulder. “He spotted your vest from the boat.” He pointed out into the shallows where a battered fishing trawler sat about a quarter mile from the shoreline, and landed ashore was a small dinghy.

“He thought you were dead,” Thomas said, pointing to his father, who shoved his son’s accusatory finger away, scolding Thomas under his breath.

“Well, thank you,” Lincoln smiled. “Glad you’ve got such a keen eye.”

“What’s your name, son?” Henry asked.

Lincoln paused for only a moment before speaking his reply. “Link,” he responded instinctually. “Link Neal.”

“Well… Link, I think we can splint you up here and get you out to the boat.” Malcom took the fillet knife from his belt and cut a few long strips of fabric from the leg of Lincoln’s torn trousers. “Get you some proper treatment.” He took the long piece of driftwood he’d used to prod Lincoln awake, and laid it out alongside his leg, tethering it in place with the strips of fabric.

“Let’s get ‘im on his feet, then.” Henry nipped off the end of his cigar, stomping out the smoldering end on the ground before reaching out to take Lincoln’s hand.

It was a tight squeeze aboard the dinghy, not just because Lincoln with his outstretched leg took up room for two, but because neither Malcom or Henry seemed very keen on deciding on who should steer, and their egos were surely soon to sink the small vessel. The rocking waves had Lincoln’s head spinning, the sound of his heartbeat in his ears was nearly deafening. He leaned over his knees and closed his eyes to center himself.

“Sir?” Thomas tapped him on the shoulder. “Sir, are you alright?”

“Yes,” Lincoln replied. “Yes… just a bit of a headache, is all. I’ll survive.” He sat up tall, completely filling his lungs, even though his ribs ached in protest. He’d survived. “And it’s Link.” He nudged Thomas’s shoulder.

Getting from the dinghy to the trawler proved difficult, but with a few painful maneuvers, Lincoln managed his way up the short rope ladder with the help of the others. The deck was slick, the paint on the rails worn through to bare wood.

Lincoln hobbled into the humble wheelhouse, sitting down on the worn, cracked leather bench on the back wall. The stubborn mist that hovered over the water began to burn off in the warmth of a new day. The water had calmed since the day before, the waves gentle at their peaks, cradling the boat through the water as Henry stood at the helm.

Lincoln’s head began to loll on his shoulders.

“You should rest, lad.” Malcom stepped inside from the boat deck. He pulled a wool jacket from the hook on the wall and balled it up around his arm. “Here,” he said, setting it down on the bench.

“No, no. I sho—” Lincoln said.

“Nonsense.” Malcom tapped the wadded jacket. “Rest.”

~~~ * ~~~

Lincoln lay bandaged and exhausted in a small cot next to the smoldering hearth of a fire — the day gone and the sky dark — and never in his life had he felt like more of a nuisance. He couldn’t help but feel that he’d turned the lives of nearly everyone in this village upside down, all of them fussing and concerned. The retired physician had been called on to tend to his wounds. The baker had dropped off a basket of more scones than Lincoln had ever seen, and Malcom’s wife had filled him up with enough hot tea that he was sure it comprised him entirely.

He’d insisted they’d done enough, that he’d find his own way if they’d only point him toward it, but they seemed determined in their efforts. Besides, he wasn’t really in any condition to argue, what with spending the day drifting in and out of consciousness — his dreams fevered and unclear, never showing him what he wanted to see, _who_ he wanted to see. These people had likely saved his life, and for that he was grateful, but he’d grown frustrated.

Each passing moment that he lay here, meant waiting another moment longer to see him, to be with him. He itched with the urge to leave, to find his way back. What must everyone think? Surely his squadron thought him dead. They were probably already loading bullets into the guns for another salute, his salute, the vicar called to the base to see yet another foolhardy American into the next life.

Lincoln’s entire body suddenly went stiff, his limbs rigid, but fingers trembling as he sat up.

“Rhett,” he whispered. Would he know? They’d all known about Garrett. The look of pity on the face of the pub’s patrons had been unmistakeable when he’d arrived at the night he tried to drink free of the pain.

“I’m here, Rhett.”

He tried to get to his feet, but stumbled on his splinted leg. The pain was excruciating and his efforts futile. He had little idea where he was, and knew even less about how to make his way back to Yorkshire. Malcom’s uncle, a veteran of the navy who’d faced the Germans decades before, had volunteered to drive Lincoln to the RAF base in Kent the following day. He’d just have to wait.

He lay still for a long time, looking up at the flickering colours of firelight cast on the ceiling overhead. He finally rolled onto his side, with his back to the fire’s heat.

“Don’t give up on me yet,” he said softly. “I’m still here… I’m still breathing.”

  
  


_**September 18, 1940: RAF West Malling, Kent, UK.** _

“You say you’re 71st?” A young officer at the gate of RAF West Malling eyed Lincoln questioningly.

“That’s right. Out of Church Fenton in Yorkshire.”

The officer tipped his head and looked Lincoln from toe to tip. “Bit of a rough go out there, eh?”

“Bit… yeah.”

“Well, you can go on in,” he said, unlocking the gate and sliding it open. “You need a—”

“No, thanks. I’ve got it.” Lincoln adjusted the grip on his crutches and began to make his way toward the administration building at the end of the short walkway off the main drive.

  
  


These places all looked the same, every one of them just a cinder block copy of the other. However, a small pinprick of colour jumped out from the drab beige and grey. Behind the high counter that split the room, a quaint wooden desk sat facing a small window, a bright array of flowers poked out from a rather ornate vase. Draped over the chair, a bright red cardigan lay folded in half.

“Somethin’ I can help you with?” A tired looking gentleman stood up behind the counter. His uniform was well worn and adorned in a colourful array of service ribbons.

“Uh, yes. I believe you can.” Lincoln stepped closer and leaned his crutches against the counter. “I’m a member of the Eagles, 71st Squadron, flying out of Yorkshire.” He paused for a moment as the officer’s brows piqued before continuing. “We were called to action on Sunday… my plane… it took heavy fire…” he trailed off, flashes of chaos pulling him inward.

“It’s alright,” the officer said gently.

Lincoln nodded in thanks, taking a moment to collect himself, and then continued. “I bailed out. The water was so close.” He looked down at his feet and ran his finger over the bandage on his forehead. “I don’t remember much else before a few fisherman found me washed up near Hastings.”

“Quite the journey,” the man said after a long pause. “I’d imagine there are more than a few who’d well like word from you.” He pulled open a wide drawer and plucked a telegraph slip from a small stack. “I’ll send word to… Church Fenton, was it?”

“Yes,” Lincoln replied.

“I’ll get you to fill in your name and rank just there.” He pointed to a small box on the form.

Lincoln filled it out quickly and handed it back, watching as the officer struggled to hold the card at just the right distance to make out his penmanship.

“All right, Mr. Neal,” he smiled, taking a pen and filling in more of the card. “Any other messages you’d like to send?”

Lincoln bit back the ‘yes’ that had begun to form on his lips. He could write to Rhett, surely there was a transmission station in Tadcaster. But what would he say? _‘I’m alive.’_? That didn’t seem like enough, and what he really wanted to say, he couldn’t relay to this stranger. His stomach began to twist in knots. Surely Rhett’s receiving of such a message would invite questions, welcome scrutiny. It could put the two of them at risk. Theirs was not a love invited to be so freely expressed. As sure as Lincoln was that there was nothing more pure than the love he felt in his heart, it didn’t change the fact that it had been deemed criminal.

That thought was vile, bringing bile up his throat. “No,” Lincoln finally replied.

“I’ll have you sit down with Ms. Weatherbee while we send along the transmission.” He gestured in the direction of the desk by the window, its chair no longer empty. Instead, a young woman with dark hair pulled neatly into a bun, sat flipping through a stack of papers and files, red cardigan draped over the shoulders of her uniform.

“Margaret!” he called.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Neal here is going to require transport,” he said, filling out the last of the transmission card. “She’ll be able to help you in arranging your return, and we’ll be sure to let you know should we receive a reply,” he said, moving to hold open a small swinging gate.

“Thank you, sir.” Lincoln gathered his crutches and made his way to the empty chair that sat astride of Margaret’s desk.

“Mr. Neal, I presume.” She smiled, turning to face him, pushing her bold-framed glasses up her nose.

“Correct.”

“And an Eagle.”

“Also correct.” Lincoln smiled.

“In need of transport, I hear.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Lincoln adjusting the angle of his hip to relieve the ache building in his leg.

“Is there anything I can get you… for the pain?” She pushed her chair back to face him more directly. “I can call on the doctor, if you like.”

Lincoln shook his head. “It’s said pain lets you know you’re alive… and I think I need that right now.”

She smiled, turning back to her desk. “I must say, it’ll certainly be nice to be delivering good news for a change.” She stared at him with soft eyes for a moment before pulling in a quick breath. “Let’s see what we can do about that transport, hey?”

“Mmm,” he hummed. “I’d walk if I thought my legs would stand up to the trip.”

She laughed, plucking a folder from her pile and opened it. “So where are you headed?”

“Yorkshire.”

She ran her index finger down a column of the complicated looking document in front of her. “Yorkshire… Yorkshire… Hmmm.” She tapped her finger a few times. “We do have a supply shipment flying out to Church Fenton.”

Lincoln’s fingertips began to tingle, his pulse quickening with excitement. “That’s great!”

She grinned back at him. “It leaves in three days time.”

Lincoln jolted up in his chair. “Three days!?”

She looked startled for a moment before rechecking the sheet. “Three days, yes.”

His breath came quick and choppy for a moment before he could respond. “Surely there’s something else?” His mouth went dry. “The train? Something.”

Margaret shook her head. “I’m afraid not.” She sat back in her chair. “The rail lines have been heavily damaged. Bombed beyond recognition across the east. We’ve not been able to send or receive supplies by rail in over a week.”

“Three days…” Lincoln sank into himself, falling against the backrest of his chair.

Margaret was quiet for a short while as Lincoln processed the news. “I’ll get you set up with a bunk in the medical wing.” She pulled a form from her desk and began filling it in.

“No.” Lincoln reached for her hand, stopping her writing. “I can’t… I can’t wait three days.”

“I’m sorry,” her eyes were wide with apology, “but there’s nothing else.”

“I’ll find another way.” Lincoln gathered his crutches.

She regarded him for a moment, her thin brows knitting in concern. “Mr. Neal… I can’t just let you—”

“Thank you, Margaret,” he said, getting to his feet. “But I assure you, I’ll be fine.” He made it a few steps, when she called out softly from behind him.

“My brother,” she said, sounding slightly startled by her own voice.

Lincoln turned to her. “Sorry?” he questioned, confusion clear in the quirk of his brow.

She turned back to her desk and snatched a pen from among the clutter. “My brother,” she repeated. “He’s traveling North.” She rummaged through her drawer for a moment and pulled out a pad of paper. “Derbyshire… taking my niece and nephew to live with their Gran.”

“Oh?” Lincoln said, a flicker of hope in his tone.

“It’s a bit of a jaunt to Church Fenton, but it’s a start, surely.” She scrawled a quick note, an address. “He’s leaving this afternoon,” she said, handing him the pen and pad.

Slightly bewildered, and more grateful than his words could express, he reached out to take the gift she offered.

“You tell him I sent you,” she smiled, handing him the note.

Unable to speak, astounded by the kindness she offered a near stranger, he reached out to shake her hand. “Thank you,” he stammered. “Thank you so much!”

She flushed slightly pink in the cheeks. “It’s the least I can do, really. I’m happy to help.” She closed her hand over his shaking one and leaned a little closer. “You’ve got someone to get home to…” she smiled, releasing his hand.

Lincoln’s breath caught in his throat, like a solid mass obstructing his lungs. He choked it free and swallowed it down. “Yes. I do.” He tapped the pad of paper in his hand. “You mind if I keep this?”

  
  


The dust kicked up by the pickup’s wheels billowed out behind them as they wound their way through the countryside. Lincoln sat in the bed of the truck — all of the seats occupied by Margaret’s brother and his children — but he didn’t mind. If it brought him closer to Rhett, he was ready to endure a barefoot ten mile hike over hot coals, if that’s what it took. A ride in the flatbed of this generous man’s truck was no inconvenience to him, it was a gift.

He leaned against the rear window of the cab and looked up at the sky. The clouds floated lazily in the weak breeze, the blue sky behind them in brilliant contrast with the grain fields that surrounded the road.

Everything in his world had a been so dramatically altered in mere weeks. Who he was before, a shadow of who he’d become. That disingenuous life he’d been living for everyone but himself, that was over now. He’d taken a risk in coming here, there was no question. The precarious nature of his life had been clearly demonstrated more than once. But this risk had reaped rewards beyond his comprehension. He’d found purpose. He’d found himself. He’d found love.

He rifled through the small bundle of things he’d been given at the base before he’d departed, and pulled out the pad of paper and pen. He sat up a little straighter and began to write.

> __
> 
> __
> 
> __Dark skies and a crowded mind,__  
>    
>  A war raging within.  
>    
>  What to be, who to love,  
>    
>  Ripping and tearing at the fraying pieces of my heart.  
>    
>  Barely holding on, just barely alive,  
>    
>  Gasping for breath when you took my hand,  
>    
>  And saved my life.  
> 

  
  


_**September 19, 1940: Tadcaster, Yorkshire, UK.** _

“That ale’s likely warmer than piss by now.” Teddy nudged Rhett’s elbow, hopping up on the stool next to him at the bar.

Rhett set the bottle on the counter, leaned forward on his elbows, and rested his chin in the palm of his left hand.

The last few days had passed in a slow, agonizing blur. If there was any solace to be found, Rhett was hopeful he’d find it here, but this place only seemed to make it worse. There was no sanctuary here, only memories, reminders of what he feared was lost.

“Pretty rough day, huh?” Teddy said, smiling in thanks to Valerie when she handed him a pint.

Rhett didn’t respond. Instead, he dragged his fingernail through the etched names and scratches in the bartop.

“We don’t know anything for sure.” Teddy slid his stool a bit closer and wrapped his arm around Rhett’s shoulder. “Faith, Stretch. Have a little faith.”

Rhett shrugged Teddy’s arm free, and shook his head with derision. “Faith,” he scoffed, turning away to hide the gathering tears in the corners of his eyes. “Buncha horseshit.” Rhett wanted to believe Teddy was right, but if it wasn’t Link, why hadn’t he come with the others from the base the night before? He would have come, Rhett knew he would have come.

“Rhett…” Teddy sighed. “Come on, you—” 

Rhett slammed his hand on the bartop and turned back to face his friend. “I should have _faith_ , huh? Like I did when Mum was sick?” His lower lip began to quiver as a tear spilled free. “Faith’s never done a thing for me.” Rhett shoved back his stool, brushed past Teddy, and stalked off toward the back door. He heard Teddy call out after him, but was grateful when he didn’t follow.

The night air was cool, but still. There was no rustle in the leaves, no whistle in the high grass, even the crickets had gone silent. Rhett couldn’t help but feel like the world around him was dying, once-vibrant colour now pale and dull, melodic song now haunted and out of tune. Every effort Rhett had made to push his worry aside only seemed to help it find a deeper seat in his mind. Each comforting _‘it wasn’t him’_ , was followed promptly by a cruel and cutting, _‘he’s gone’_.

The stairs creaked under his feet as he made his way up to his flat. Once inside, he lit no lantern or candle. He simply sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor until his eyes began to pick details out of the darkness.

The plank of wood at his feet was splintered in half, the gap between it and the next was wider than all the others. It was a place he’d caught his toe more than a few times. Link had even tripped—

“Stop,” he muttered under his breath, squeezing his eyes closed. The memories that flashed through Rhett’s mind were more than he could bear, but it was impossible to keep Link out, especially here; the room practically pulsed with his presence. Everything he touched seemed to radiate: the tea cup Link had used the morning he left still sat on the table. Rhett had been unable to bring himself to wash it. He’d slept in his chair, because to lay in the bed they’d shared was too painful. But his back was screaming and his head pounded, lack of sleep and malnourishment getting the better of him.

He gave into the ache and swung his legs up to lay atop the bedding, staring at the cracks in the ceiling’s plaster, counting the pieces they’d split it into. He picked at the tear in the blanket next to him, pulling apart the fraying thread: all of it an attempt to distract his busy mind, to keep it occupied until exhaustion pulled him into sleep.

In dreams, Rhett had often found relief, escape from the confines of his existence and the limitations of man, but his subconscious could be cruel. It would let him fly, only to snatch his wings and send him plummeting back to earth. It would show him great beauty, and then set it all ablaze, forcing him to watch as it all turned to ash at his feet. There can be no good without bad, no beauty without pain, no love without loss. But the dream that began to weave itself into existence tonight was altogether different.

The dream took no form, no discernable shape, just an empty hollow blackness. Sounds ebbed in and out. Hints of music and laughter. Swells of angered words and pleasured cries. Voices he recognized, and others he could not place. They surrounded him, encircled him. A wake of warmth followed some, while others left behind a trail of ice. From deep within the mass of swirling echos, there it was. Unmistakable. It was him. He was here. Link’s voice rushed toward him, the heat of it so intense it lit the air on fire. Every other sound and sensation exploded all around him into brilliant white light.

Rhett jolted up in bed, his clothes soaked through in sweat. The flat was still shrouded in darkness. He stood on unsteady legs and made his way toward the water closet. He fumbled around in the darkness for the candle he knew sat on a small shelf above the wash stand. He took out his lighter and ignited the wick.

In the orange glow of the candlelight, Rhett was barely able to see his reflection in the small mirror, nothing but the gleam of flickering flame reflecting off the sweat on his skin. He dipped a cloth into the cool water in the wash basin and then held it to his flushed cheeks and forehead. He slowed the pace of his breathing and his heart slowed with it.

Certain that no more sleep was on the horizon, Rhett took the candle and walked numbly to the kitchen to start the day the only way he knew how, with a cup of tea. It was no cure-all, but there was something very soothing in the ritual. He filled the kettle and set the burner alight, then turned to the window. The sky outside was still black. He lit another candle on the nightstand, and checked his pocket watch: 4 a.m.

Rhett stripped off his sweat-soaked clothes and pulled clean ones from the small chest of drawers next to his bed. When the kettle came to a boil, he filled the teapot, and then poured the rest into a washbasin, lathering soap into a cloth to wash himself while the tea steeped.

  
  


Freshly clothed, and the last sip of tea swallowed, Rhett pulled on his jacket and cap, and headed out the door.

The waning moon sat low on the horizon, but unobstructed by clouds, it lit the cobbles as he headed out of town. Today was the service, the service of three officers from the base who had been lost that week. The vicar had been called upon, but knew nothing of those departed. That didn’t stop the questions, and with the base so close, it was all anyone was talking about. Before long, news had trickled into the streets. Two men were lost over the channel, and the other died of his injuries on the base. All in the space of three days. Their joint service was to be held this morning just after daybreak.

Rhett’s feet carried him forward along the dirt road out of town. Church Fenton was just under two hour’s walk, and even though he knew he’d probably never get on base, he had to be there. If there was a chance Link was among those lost, he had to go.

The walk was one he’d made before, with Link at his side the night they’d snuck onto the base together. That trip had seemed to fly by in an instant, laughter and light-hearted conversation distracting from the aches in their feet. This time, each step felt like ten, all of them reminding him of how alone he was.

Would he have stayed if I asked? Rhett hated himself more and more every time that same question played across his mind. There was a guilt there, seated in the knowledge that he’d be safe if he’d stayed. But how selfish would it have been, to ask that of him? How much resentment would have been seeded in that act? There had been no other option, no matter how painful the consequence. He’d done what Link needed. He’d been the man Link needed.

The road began to curve and climb as he approached Scarthingwell. The sky over the cabbage fields was beginning to show the earliest signs of the rising sun. Rhett picked up his pace and was soon passing through the sleepy streets of Church Fenton. He watched as several windows lit up as he passed, the houses’ occupants preparing to start their day. Once he reached the outskirts of the town’s center, Rhett was relying entirely on the faint memories he had of the night Link dragged him through the shrubbery and brambles to lead him the rest of the way.

The sky was now painted pink before him, growing brighter with each passing step. Through the gaps in the trees and shrubs, Rhett could see peeks of the high chain-link fence. He stepped off the road, pushing his way through the tangle of dead branches, free of the tendrils and vines that had overtaken them, until he finally crossed into the cleared strip of ground on the fence’s outer perimeter.

The base was quiet. A few lights were on in the main building, and in the distant gatehouse, but the airstrips and field were quiet, the tall lamps lighting them revealing nothing but grass and pavement. Rhett edged closer to the fence, knotting his fingers into its links for a moment, and then continuing down the fence line, seeking out a familiar view.

As Rhett continued on, the planes that lined the edge of the far hangar came into view, the pink morning hues jumping off the steel and glass. Beside him, a large oak stood in the otherwise barren clearing. This was it.

He didn’t even know if all of this even qualified as a plan. It was one thing to sneak into a secure military base in the cover of darkness, but it was quite another to do it in what was soon to be broad daylight without the expert to keep you out of trouble. Nevertheless, Rhett crouched and began to search for weakness in the fence he’d exploited before. He crawled on his hands and knees several feet before he found it. But his heart sank with disappointment. The fence had been repaired, nipped closed with new links of chain.

“Dammit!” Rhett stood and shook the fence. “God dammit!” he cursed, kicking at the dirt. He spun away, pulling off his hat and tugging at his hair. Staring down at his feet, he felt warmth spread across his back as his body began to cast a long shadow.

He turned back to the base, the fields and buildings now bathed in sunlight. He shielded his eyes and quickly noticed details he had missed before. To the left of the airstrip that ran alongside the hangars, nestled between two large buildings, a courtyard encircled a flagpole, its flag hanging limply at half mast.

The ache in his heart was as deep as he’d ever felt, and then made deeper still when he finally spotted the two pine caskets that sat together in the grass. He collapsed, his knees digging into ground still damp with morning dew, clinging desperately to the fence for fear of being swallowed up by the earth.

Though colder, the day he’d buried his mother had been very much like this one; the sun had shone just as brightly over the fields in Halifax that morning. He recalled how angry he’d been that it didn’t rain; that if there was a God, he didn’t have the decency to let the skies cry for her. The cloudless blue above him seemed a taunting reminder that he’d been a fool to believe for one second that things could be different. The ember of faith that had smoldered deep inside him, nearly igniting in Link’s presence, had been extinguished.

Dejected and broken, Rhett slid back to rest against the bark of the oak. He was suddenly grateful the fence had been repaired. Any closer and he feared he might lose himself entirely in the darkness of grief. This would have to be enough. He felt the heat of the sun as it climbed higher in the sky, felt the growing breeze as it began to ripple the flag. Above him, the leaves fluttered, filtering light and casting shadows. Nature was offering him a reprieve, but it wasn’t to last.

The doors of the main building swung open, and several officers began filtering out. Rhett was too far away to clearly see every face that passed through the doors, but he was confident that if Link was among them, he’d be able to pick him out from among the sea of unfamiliar forms. He stood up to get a clearer view, searching desperately for any sign that would dispel his worst fears. But when the door finally closed — uniformed men moving to stand in formation as the vicar took his place behind the small podium — Link wasn’t there.

“No…” Rhett’s heart dropped to his stomach, and his knees began to tremble. He closed his hand over his mouth to stifle the sob that shook him to his core. Tears flooded from his eyes, running rivers over the planes of his face as he stumbled forward, catching himself on the steel fence.

The wind carried away the words of those who spoke, but the pain of it all was in the gestures. The way they stood, stooped and broken. The reverence with which they placed their hand atop the pine. The quick flick of a finger that wiped away shed tears.

“I’m sorry,” Rhett said, strangled with grief, “but I can’t watch them bury you.” He turned his back, rubbing away the tears that streaked his cheeks. He rushed through the undergrowth and tangled mess of weeds, tripping and stumbling as he clambered up the shallow ditch onto the road.

He made it as far as the bending turn, when the first shot in the salute sounded, ripping through the sky. The shock of it paralyzed him, stopping him dead in his tracks when second shot rang out, high and clear. He willed himself forward, step by step, tears building anew as the echoes of the last shot faded out.

~~~ * ~~~

Under the oppressive weight of loss, Rhett’s return to Tadcaster was a journey with no drive for destination. He wanted so badly to just get lost, to forget it all and tuck himself away in mountains and moors. But his feet had dutifully carried him home, slow as they may have been.

He scuffed his feet along the cobbles, turning the corner off the high street when he heard someone call his name.

“Rhett!”

Rhett looked up from his shoes to see Teddy standing in front of the pub. He stomped his cigarette out under his toe and ran toward him.

Rhett pulled his hat down over his face and rounded his shoulders.

“Where’ve ya been? Been lookin’ for ya all day!” Teddy came to a stop in front of Rhett, placing a hand on his bicep. “Stretch?”

Teddy smoothed over Rhett’s arm. That simple act of kindness and compassion tore Rhett apart. His eyes welled with tears before he even met Teddy’s own. “Teddy… I… He’s…” The words fell apart, his trembling lips unable to form them.

“Oh, Rhett.” Teddy pulled him close, wrapping an arm around him and cradling Rhett’s head in his hand, letting him fall apart on an understanding shoulder. “I’m so sorry…” he whispered.

There was nothing left to hold together. This wound had ripped through him, tearing open old scars and leaving him to bleed dry. When he’d lost his mother, he felt so alone, he’d suffered through the throes of grief without the soothing touch of a comforting hand. He clutched at the fabric of Teddy’s shirt, and heaved his sorrow and agony into the comforting embrace of his friend.

“I’m here,” Teddy said, pulling back to look Rhett in the eye. “I’m here.”

Rhett snuffled, releasing his hold as Teddy stepped back. He nodded, offering a weak smile as he wiped his face clean with the sleeve of his jacket.

“I want you to come back to the pub with me.”

“Teddy… I think I—” Rhett began to protest, but Teddy interrupted.

“I know it’s hard… but you need to eat,” Teddy prodded Rhett’s thin waist. “I’ll not have you starve on my watch.”

With a reluctant nod, Rhett followed Teddy across the lane and into the Thistle.

The pub was nearly empty, as was typical just after noon. A few patrons sat finishing up their chowders and rolls, chit chatting in the far corner. Behind the bar, Valerie was folding cloths and stacking them in the cupboard. Though Gerald was nowhere in sight, but Rhett could hear him grunting from below the counter.

“Rhett!” Valerie’s eyes lit up and her smile matched it, but her expression quickly shifted as she took him in. She looked to Teddy for a moment, and then covered her heart with her hand. She stepped out around the bar, her willowy arms reaching around Rhett’s waist and she lay her cheek on Rhett’s chest. “I’m so sorry, Rhett,” she breathed.

Rhett offered Valerie the hug she had so gracefully offered in condolence, and thanked her before taking a seat at the bar.

“Think there’s one last chowder left in that pot?” Teddy asked.

“Sure,” Val replied.

“Thanks, luv.” Teddy kissed her on the forehead, and she glided off toward the kitchen. He leaned against the bar next to Rhett, peering over the counter. “Somethin’ I can help ya with back there, Gerald?” he asked as the red-faced man popped up from behind the counter with his hands stained black.

“This damn thing’s all buggered up,” he said, taking a clean cloth from Valerie’s neatly folded pile and soiling it in grease. “Valve’s seized up tighter than a nun. Think ya can help with that, do ya?” Gerald chuckled, tossing off his apron.

“Perhaps not,” Teddy winked, hopping up on a stool.

“Mmm, s’what I thought.” Gerald dusted off his shirt and scratched at his chin. “I’m gonna have to run up to Jacob’s and see if he’s got any spares.” He stepped out from behind the bar and stood next to Teddy. “Let her know I’ve ducked out, and don’t go wreckin’ the place while I’m gone.” He smacked the back of Teddy’s head — eliciting a rather enthusiastic wince — and waddled out the door.

Rhett couldn’t help the tiny smile that pulled up the corner of his lip.

“That man’ll knock me senseless one day.” Teddy rubbed his head.

“Little late for that,” Rhett said, turning to face his friend.

Teddy simply smiled back, giving Rhett’s knee a quick pat before his eyes darted past Rhett, and he waved “You folks have a good day now.”

Rhett looked over his shoulder to see the last of the pub’s lunch customers filling out through the door. The tension in his shoulders eased off, all of it feeling just the slightest bit easier because he didn’t have to hide the ache.

“I guess it’s time to trash the place,” Teddy winked.

Rhett shook his head, breathing out a small sigh. There was a long moment of comfortable silence, the two of them sitting next to each other, close enough that Rhett could feel Teddy’s warmth.

“Hang in there,” Teddy said, soft and sincere.

The bell over the front door rang out as Valerie’s sing song voice filled the empty space.

“Lunch is served!” she said, letting the kitchen door swing closed behind her. She looked up at the two of them smiling, having made it only a few steps before she gasped and dropped the steaming bowl to the floor, where it shattered at her feet.

Teddy shot up from his stool and rushed to her. “Val?” He took her shoulders in his hands.

The broken pieces of ceramic had scattered across the floor, one of them coming to rest at the foot of Rhett’s stool. He got to his feet, and then crouched to pick it up. 

“Val?” Teddy gave her a small shake. “What’s the matter, luv?”

As Rhett stood up — setting the pieces he’d collected on the bartop — he watched Teddy turn back, his eyes going wide as Valerie’s trembling arm rose from her side, her finger pointing to the front door.

A question had only just begun to form on Rhett’s lips, when a voice from behind him answered it.

“Hi, Rhett.”

A sharp intake of breath caught in Rhett’s throat. It couldn’t be. It was impossible. His heart pounded; he could feel the fevered pitch of his pulse in the tip of every finger and toe as he turned around.

Link’s smile was the first thing Rhett saw, just as wide and true as the last time he’d seen it. This is a dream. This has to be a dream. “H… how?” Rhett stammered, frozen in disbelief.

Link inched closer, adjusting his weight, tucking his crutch further under his arm.

Crutches. He was on crutches. “You’re hurt…” Every abrasion, bruise, and bandage lept from Link’s skin, and each one of them cut Rhett deeper than the last. “Link…” He took a few unsteady steps closer, barely able to keep his knees from buckling. “I don’t… I don’t understand. You were… You…”

“No.” Link shook his head. “I’m here, Rhett… I’m here.”

Rhett rushed forward and wrapped Link in his arms, the crutches clattering to the floor as Rhett took his weight. Their embrace was chaotic at first, each of them desperately clutching at the other, but as their lips finally met, there was only tenderness in the way they held one another. Their mouths found the same easy rhythm they always had.

Their deep kiss fell away to slow pecks along jawlines and noses.

“Where the hell have you been?” Rhett pulled back for a moment, giving Link a small shake. “I went to the base… I thought— You scared the living hell outta me, you know that, right?”

“I’m sorry.” Link smiled and pressed a kiss to the end of Rhett’s chin. “But, to be fair, I was a little busy trying to get back to you.” He jabbed Rhett playfully in the rib.

Rhett chuckled and grinned. “I can’t believe this…” He wrapped a hand around the back of Link’s neck and kissed into his dark hair. “You’re really here.”

Link leaned in and pressed his nose to Rhett’s. “It’s because of you,” he breathed.

Rhett held Link’s face in his hands, looking down at him with more love in his heart than it could contain. “What is?” he asked.

“You saved my life,” Link said, leaning closer, his lips brushing Rhett’s ear. “I love you,” Link whispered, his voice trembling.

A slow smile spread across Rhett’s face, and as he pulled back, looking deep into Link’s eyes, he spoke the words he’d known were true all along.

“I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. That's it, folks. I just wanted to thank you all for being so incredibly wonderful and supportive throughout this process. I know it's been a long time coming and I am just so happy to finally give you the conclusion to this story <3
> 
> So much love, so so much! 
> 
> RTR


	22. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Recommended Listening:**   
>  [Stay With Me - Sam Smith Cover (Piano/Cello)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B22eZY1PESY)   
>  [Without You - David Guetta Cover (Piano/Cello/Vocal)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dfUiuMECCak)   
>  [A Thousand Years - Christina Perri Cover (Piano/Cello)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QgaTQ5-XfMM)

_**October 11, 1945: Leeds, Yorkshire, UK.** _

“Oh for God’s sake. Will you stop fussing already?” Lincoln shoved Rhett away from the table where he’d been folding and refolding cloth napkins next to place settings.

“I’m almost done!” Rhett weakly protested, smiling as he reached out and cupped Lincoln’s broad shoulders. “Just one more…”

Lincoln shook his head and lifted Rhett’s chin with a curled finger. “I somehow doubt they’ll care about a few napkins.”

Their flat smelled of the roast and rolls Lincoln had been tending most of the afternoon. It was one of Rhett’s favorites, and that had been abundantly clear. In the short time that it had been out of the oven, Rhett had already been picking at the trimmings, his fingers swatted away when he got a little too brazen.

“You’d be surprised who might care about a wrinkled napkin,” Rhett winked, beginning to warm his hands over Lincoln’s arms. “You know… appearances and all that…” he trailed off, looking down Lincoln’s body with a lip pulled between his teeth.

Lincoln’s cheeks flushed with heat, his heart quickening at Rhett’s touch.

“Speaking of appearances…” Rhett practically growled, his hands ghosting down over Lincoln’s body to firmly grab at his rump, his mouth capturing Lincoln’s in an abruptly deep kiss.

Lincoln responded in kind, his mouth falling open to make Rhett’s job all the easier. His hands roamed over Rhett’s waist and back, fingers wrapped up in the soft cotton of Rhett’s shirt.

Rhett walked the two of them backward until Lincoln was pressed against the wall and his jaw was trembling with the soft moans Rhett was pulling out.

Lincoln slipped free of the kiss long enough to breathe a weak protest into Rhett’s bearded skin. “They’ll… be here any minute… we—”

Rhett nipped away the words on Lincoln’s lips, and then grazed his teeth over Lincoln’s jawline, smiling with an open mouth against the artery that thrummed under his tongue.

Lincoln’s mouth hung open, panting with soft, laboured breaths. “You’re… awful…” he said, with barely a whisper of conviction.

“Am I now?” Rhett grinned against Lincoln’s skin, dragging his teeth until his lips brushed the shell of Lincoln’s ear. “And here I was thinkin’ you were enjoyin’ yourself.” He accentuated his point with a nip of Lincoln’s earlobe.

The sharp intake of breath paired perfectly with the buck of Lincoln’s hips, and Rhett began to chuckle against the skin under his lips as he kissed his way down Lincoln’s neck. He pulled aside the collar of Lincoln’s shirt to pass his tongue over the protuberance of his clavicle.

Rhett knew how to tear Lincoln apart — how to steal away his command of the English language, to leave him a stuttering mess of need and desire — and if it was this that Rhett wanted for his birthday, who was Lincoln to deny him? He gave in, fully and completely, collapsing into the dark, urgent need that was tugging at his stomach. He pulled out the tails of Rhett’s tucked shirt, slipping his hand beneath to lay hot and greedy on Rhett’s skin.

A loud and distinct sequence of three raps on their flat’s front door jarred them both from their shared reverie, pulling the two of them apart in an instant.

They were both a mess, hair tangled in disarray, clothing rumpled and parted at a few buttons. Lincoln covered his mouth with the back of his hands to stifle his embarrassed laughter.

“Uh…” Rhett’s hands pressed against Lincoln’s chest for a moment, smoothing out the wrinkles he’d made, eyes wide in shock. “Just a minute!”

“What did I tell you…” Lincoln quietly reprimanded, runnings his fingers through Rhett’s hair and then his own to tame it. He then took stock of the situation that was presenting quite a problem in his trousers. “Dammit, Rhett!” he hissed, looking up at him with the intent to convey annoyance, knowing full well his smile would betray him.

Rhett grinned back with an unconvincing shrug.

“Think the two of ya might be lettin’ us in sometime soon, then?” a familiar voice called from behind the door.

“Oh, for Christ…” Rhett muttered, shaking his head, messily tucking in the last of his shirt, and smoothing his palms over the thighs of his trousers as he crossed the room in a few short strides. He slid free the lock and pulled open the door.

Teddy stood tall, beaming in the doorway, a small folded bundle tucked under his arm. He gave Rhett a careful look up and down before he spoke.

“Not interruptin’, are we?” Teddy teased, standing on the tips of his toes for a moment to flash a wink over Rhett’s shoulder at Lincoln.

“Teddy! Leave them be!” Valerie shoved Teddy aside and stepped past him into the flat. “Rhett. So good to see you!” She wrapped an arm around him in a half hug. “Happy Birthday!” she smiled.

“Thanks, Val,” Rhett said with a slight bow of his head. He then crouched down next to her. “And how’s my little chap?” Rhett asked, scruffing his hand through the ginger hair atop the head of a small toddler that stood at Valerie’s side.

The little boy laughed and reached up to push away Rhett’s hand.

“He’s gotten so big!” Lincoln moved to stand beside Rhett as Teddy stepped inside and closed the door.

“He sure ‘as,” Teddy’s sighed, slipping off his coat and hanging on the hook next to the door. “But he’s finally sleepin’ through the night in his own bed, so God bless ‘im for that.”

Rhett laughed along with the others and then wrapped his hands around the boy’s waist. “Let’s see ‘im then!” Rhett’s face was bright and cheerful as he picked up the giggling child. “Heavier by the day, I’d reckon!” he teased, softly tickling at the boy’s stomach.

“And how have you been?” Teddy asked Lincoln as Valerie handed him her jacket and hat, speaking loudly to be heard over the exuberant laughter of his son. “They treatin’ you well over at the paper, are they?”

“Good, yeah.” Lincoln nodded. “Get the odd look now and then, you know… with the accent and all that.”

Teddy chuckled. “The yank of Yorkshire.”

“That’s me.”

“I’ll be gettin’ my hug about now.” Valerie stepped between Teddy and Lincoln and wrapped him in a tight hug.

“Hi Val,” Lincoln spoke softly against her dark hair, hugging her back. “So nice to see everyone.”

She gave a light squeeze and then stepped back. “It’s nice to see you too,” she beamed, full and wide. “Oh!” Her brows shot up and she whipped around to Teddy, snatching the bundle he’d been carrying. “Tarts!” she exclaimed, handing them to Lincoln. “Currant tarts.”

“My favorite!” Rhett said, bouncing on the balls of his feet, spinning in circles, making wide eyes at the child in his arms. “What about you, Garrett? Do you like ‘em too?” he cooed.

Lincoln grinned at the two of them, then stepped behind them to set the basket of tarts on the table. “Come.” He waved the others to their chairs. “Come sit.”

Lincoln held out Valerie’s chair and she sat down first, sliding up to the table and sighing in relief. “I’ve not sat down all day, I don’t think.”

“Been at it since daybreak, she ‘as,” Teddy said with a smile. “Quite the lass I’ve got.” Teddy crossed the room rather slowly, favouring his left leg as he went.

“Still not sure how you managed it,” Rhett teased, setting Garrett down on Valerie’s lap and then reaching out a hand in offer to his friend.

Teddy politely declined with a shake of his head. “I’ll manage just fine.”

“Still bothering you, is it?” Lincoln asked.

“Some days are better than others,” Teddy nodded, finally making it to his chair. “But I’m still standin’, so I’d be a fool to complain.” He shimmied his chair in next to his wife and son. “I’d reckon you know a thing or two about that, eh?”

Lincoln pressed his lips together in a half smile and the two of them shared a knowing nod. “I sure do,” he agreed, setting a hand on Rhett’s shoulder and then giving it a squeeze. “Okay birthday boy! Have a seat!” He pushed Rhett down into his chair and then darted toward the small kitchenette on the other side of the flat.

“Link cooked…” Rhett whispered. “You’ve all been warned.”

“I heard that!” Lincoln called over shoulder.

“Someone’s in trouble now,” Teddy laughed along with Valerie.

“Trubble…” Garrett mumbled through clumsy lips.

“That’s right, Garrett,” Lincoln said, gathering up the plate of sliced beef and the bowl of stewed vegetables, carrying them across the room and setting them in the center of the table. “Uncle Rhett is in big _‘trubble’_.” He eyed Rhett from across the table.

Rhett sat in silence for a moment, the others following his lead, and then stood up from the table. “How about I get the rolls?” He passed behind Lincoln and patted his shoulder.

“Good idea,” Lincoln nodded, sitting down with the others.

They all laughed through their meal, sharing stories, old and new. It was with full stomachs and hearts that they sat back in their chairs, plates empty but for a few crumbs of currant tarts.

The room was bathed in soft light from the sconces on the wall and the few candles that sat on the mantle of the quaint, unlit fireplace in the corner. Next to it, a bookcase was piled high with thick novels and stacks of paper scrawled with scores of music. Lincoln’s desk sat in its shadow, typewriter sitting beneath a wide lamp, the desk’s surface littered in newsprint and scribbled notes. In the opposite corner, Rhett’s mother’s cello sat proudly next to a stool, and along the wall stood a piano.

The room was crowded, full to the brim with their life, but it was warm. It was welcoming. It was home.

“Whaddaya say to a little music?” Teddy asked, leaning over to press a kiss to Garrett’s forehead.

Valerie smiled at him and kissed his cheek.

“I’ve got just the thing,” Rhett said, getting up from his chair and side-stepping around the others to get to the bookshelf. He hummed to himself as he picked though the stack on the bottom shelf. “Here it is,” he said softly.

“What’s that, now?” Teddy got up and stood beside Rhett, looking down at the sheets in his hand.

“This one’s fallin’ asleep in my lap,” Valerie gently smoothed Garrett’s hair back from his fluttering eyes. “Mind if I lay ‘im down?” she asked.

“Oh, no. Not at all,” Lincoln said, “Rhett’s put out a few blankets on the foot of the bed.”

Valerie ducked down the short hall, and Lincoln could hear her cooing Garrett to sleep when he’d turned his attention back to Rhett and Teddy. He watched the two of them point to the pages in Rhett’s hands and whisper back and forth. When Valerie reappeared at the end of the hall, he looked to her with a furrowed brow.

“You know what these two are up to?”

“Hah!” she laughed, shaking her head with a slight roll of her eyes. “Never.”

“Think you can manage it?” Rhett asked as he and Teddy headed toward the piano.

Teddy huffed out an exasperated laugh and snatched the music from Rhett’s hand. He sat down at the piano bench, cracked his knuckles, and then played an impressive, melodic flourish. “You just try to keep up,” he smirked.

Rhett laughed deep and full, his hand covering his chest as he sat down on the stool and positioned the cello between his knees, feeling out the strings as Lincoln got up from the table and sat down on the small sofa that divided the space, patting the seat next to him until Valerie filled it.

Teddy’s fingers played out the first few notes before the long draw of Rhett’s bow joined him. The music was smooth and slow, the harmony resting gently between them when Rhett parted his lips and began to sing.

_“A war raging within.” He closed his eyes, his bow pulling out a low resonant note. _“What to be, who to love. Ripping and tearing at the fraying pieces of my heart.”__

__

__

Lincoln’s heart stuttered in his chest as the familiar words settled on his ears. His poem. Rhett was singing _‘Two Fronts’_.

Rhett’s eyes met Lincoln’s from across the room, and he held Lincoln’s gaze as he sang out the next line. _“Barely holding on, just barely alive.”_ The timbre of the music fell, Teddy’s notes muted as Rhett sang the next line. _“Gasping for breath when you took my hand.”_

Lincoln covered his heart with his hand.

_“And saved my life.”_

Lincoln sat, utterly enraptured, listening to the way his words flowed from Rhett’s lips, the way they blended with the beautiful music Rhett had created. The entirety of it was surreal. This was his life and Rhett was his to love.

When the room echoed with the last ringing note from Rhett’s cello, there was nothing that could have held back the tears that rolled down Lincoln’s cheeks, tears forged from some of the purest happiness he’d ever felt.

“You…” Lincoln sat, frozen in shock. “You… wrote music for it…”

“I did.” Rhett set his cello aside and got to his feet.

“But…” Lincoln stammered as Rhett took his hand and pulled him to his feet. “This is supposed to be _your_ birthday… not mine.” Lincoln wrapped his arm around Rhett’s waist and smiled up at him.

“I know.” Rhett’s smile was so warm and full, Lincoln could barely catch his breath.

“You… you told me I wasn’t to get you anything… and you had to go and—”

“Shh,” Rhett hushed. “I’ve got everything I’ll ever need,” he whispered softly, pressing his lips to Lincoln’s forehead. “Right here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this little snippet of their future together! I've included the entire _Two Fronts_ poem below.
> 
>  _Two Fronts ___  
> 
> 
> _Dark skies and a crowded mind,_  
>  _A war raging within._  
>  _What to be, who to love,_  
>  _Ripping and tearing at the fraying pieces of my heart._  
>  _Barely holding on, just barely alive,_  
>  _Gasping for breath when you took my hand,_  
>  _And saved my life._
> 
> _Wars and inner battles,_  
>  _In the past they’ll remain._  
>  _What I am, who I love,_  
>  _Building and shaping the fragile pieces back into a whole._  
>  _Heart so full, wrapped up in you,_  
>  _Pleading for God when you held me close,_  
>  _And gave me hope._  
> 
> 
> _No more pain and anguish,_  
>  _This comfort never known._  
>  _What will be, who I’ll hold,_  
>  _Striving and trying to pay back the debt that I owe._  
>  _That first touch, that very first kiss,_  
>  _Struggling for words when you stole my heart,_  
>  _And showed me love._  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> This story began as the seed of an idea dropped in my inbox on tumblr (by a pretty special someone), and here we are a year and a half later. It’s truly surreal. I’m so grateful to each one of you that has taken the time to read this story, to invest your time into the world that I’ve created. There is really nothing I can say to express how much it means, and thank you will never seem like enough.
> 
> These characters, this world, all of it means so much to me, and it’s incredible special to know that it means so much to so many of you. I’m touched and honoured to have been able to write for you. I really am.
> 
> I only hope that my words have offered some form of repayment for the fulfillment this process has offered me.
> 
> Much love to all of you and I wish you the happiest of reading in the future!
> 
> RTR <3


End file.
